


Holmes & Holmes PLC

by S_IRIS



Series: Fuck Compliance! [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Because this is a documentary, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Developing Relationship, Documentary format, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, No one has sex in front of the cameras, POV camera crew, Pining, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Unhappy Ending, in the crushing embrace of capitalism!, mockumentary, sorta cringe comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 142,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, an apathetic former drug addict, has been put in charge of running a boring office in his brother's company, Holmes & Holmes PLC, and he will now try not to burn it to the ground.John Watson is a bored salesman who's more content to regard his bleak, unfulfilled life with detachment and humour than take any action to change it.Will their unlikely friendship develop into something more? Or will their limiting beliefs and a tricky manager/subordinate dynamic tear them apart?DISCLAIMER: If you’re not familiar with The Office, either the UK/US version, don’t worry. This fic requires no knowledge of The Office canon at all. I simply wanted to milk the hilarity of Sherlock trying to thrive in the dullness of corporate life.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Philip Anderson/Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fuck Compliance! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695409
Comments: 387
Kudos: 232
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. First Day

**Author's Note:**

> > _Following a scandal at a mid-range firm over corporate malpractices at the executive level, a team of London-based independent filmmakers decide to investigate the way businesses play out at a time when the global economy is just about to nosedive into the worst recession since The Great Depression._
>> 
>> _This ultimately leads them to select Holmes & Holmes PLC, a failing paper supply company, as the best possible subject of their documentary. The aim is to showcase why Holmes & Holmes is doomed in a modern, increasingly paperless world, by highlighting their poor, top-down management practices, inability to integrate technology into their business model, lack of diversity hiring and an ineffective Human Resources department unable to focus on employee welfare._
> 
> The most terrifying thing about the universe is not that it’s hostile, but that it is indifferent — Stanley Kubrick.
> 
> This universe explores how disappointments wear us down and how even the best of us develop ironic detachment & indifference as defence mechanisms, in addition to themes of fragility of "alpha" masculinity, the stark disconnect between what people say and what people do, and discrimination in workplaces against the backdrop of satirical cringe comedy associated with The Office.
> 
> Set in 2007, a year before the collapse of Lehman Brothers and subsequently the Great Recession, this is from **the POV of the film crew making a documentary on the workings of a mid-range paper supply company called Holmes & Holmes PLC**.
> 
> I own absolutely nothing, neither the characters nor any scenarios or brands that might be mentioned here. I've preserved the mockumentary/breaking-the-fourth-wall format of The Office here for maximum comedic effect/reactions to cringe.
> 
> Enjoy! x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock joins Holmes & Holmes PLC as branch manager. John tries to finish a simple task but is thrown off by Philip Anderson.

It’s a gloomy September morning in Ferndale, London. Rumsey Road is deserted except for a car, a red Sebring that rolls into the nondescript parking lot of Ferndale Business Park’s nondescript office building, crushing over a young daisy trying to grow out of the dull, grey concrete.

“Oh yes, that’s supposed to be the new boss,” a woman in her early sixties chirps, her excitement a stark contrast against the weather waging outside the office building window as she watches the car park in its designated space.

“Sorry dear,” she leans in towards the camera, “I couldn’t hear what you were—oh, how do I know, you ask? The car, that’s how I know. Sebring by Chrysler. That’s the company car of a Holmes & Holmes branch manager. Terrible choice in this climate... Well, when I say climate...”

She saunters out the conference room with her now-cold tea. We zoom out to take in the rest of the office floor with open seating separated by departmental desk clumps: the Ferndale branch of Holmes & Holmes PLC, a mid-range paper supply firm, situated in the heart of London, and yet so far removed from the electric soul of the city.

Copier beeps punctuate the constant white noise of shredders and landline phones like life support machines. Dell computers soldier on against the obsolete Windows XP and CASIO calculator buttons play havoc on carpal tunnels. The carpeting is grey and the walls are pale yellow. Fastened windows covered with drawn Venetian blinds and artificial plants trying to strike a contrast against fluorescent lights make an insincere effort to bring a semblance of charm to the office. The quiet office employees minding their own business don’t contribute much either.

Except for the woman currently prattling away to the camera.

“I had a beauty like that. Actually, it was my ex-husband—God rest his soul—who had a beauty just like that! Oh, the times we spent in those leather seats—”

A sanctimonious clear of the throat interrupts the woman. Camera pans to reveal a bespectacled man in his mid-thirties. His unkempt beard is a testament to his all-consuming dedication to his job. Clearly irritated by the conversation which appears to distract him from said job, he staples away loudly to indicate his displeasure.

“Can I help you, Philip?” She offers, “Perhaps some herbal tea with ginger?”

"Some of us are here to _actually_ work, Martha, not to rise to documentarian fame!" Philip snaps, shooting disapproving looks towards the cameras.

Martha glances at the camera, curling herself smaller at Philip’s sharp-tongued jab but not for long. Her eyes widen and camera follows her line of sight to a young man, barely thirty, who is talking to the receptionist. The crisp black of his suit stands out against the subdued greys and the yellows, and the mass of unruly curls on his head revolt against his outward orderliness. Everyone in the office has spotted the newcomer, with people in distant nooks and crannies of the office space craning their necks to get a better view.

The newcomer’s eyes narrow as he spots the camera. The receptionist gingerly hands him a collar mic, eliciting an insincere stretch of the lips from him as he scans the rest of the employees before scramming into the manager’s office.

Camera pans back to Martha, who has her arms crossed. She doesn’t look pleased.

“That... can’t be the new manager... can it? He’s so young!”

* * *

"Come in!"

We enter to see the young newcomer stand and unbutton his jacket, extending a hand.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft told me you all are working on a documentary. Now, is that for real or is he just paying you to keep an eye on me?”

Sherlock’s office is decent-sized, the colour scheme of pale green walls and mahogany furniture cheerier than the rest of the office. The windows have blinds on all walls except the one shared with the conference room. Binders and binders squeezed into the bookcase like sardines. Standard Dell computer atop a polished wood desk. A standard-issue landline phone, a sleek desk lamp, a puncher, a Rolodex and half-filled pencil cups are among other notable items.

Sherlock’s gaze wanders over them as if searching for answers. Answers to questions like why on earth he’d ever need office stationery.

At a cursory glance, he looks like he’d fit right into the corporate life: the sharp suit, the posh voice, the intimidating glare and the straight-talking manner. But a momentary flash of dread in his eyes tells an altogether different story.

Sherlock blinks the look away and gives the camera a defiant stare, not welcoming the intrusion.

“That’s filming already, isn’t it? Okay, well, Mycroft is coming down here from his corporate throne; he’ll be here in a while. Till then, why don’t you all... take a break or something so I can take this thing off my chest!”

As Sherlock starts pulling out the collar mic, he is forced to look up at the camera again by the crew.

“Oh, I’m not supposed to do that? Why? I’m not required to wear this until you are in the room... Ugh-okay whatever, just get out and leave me alone! My head is killing me as it is.”

Camera pans away towards reception as Sherlock slumps his head against the desk with a groan. We cut to see...

* * *

“Hey Molly, how you doing?”

A short, compact blond man in his early thirties takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coatrack at the reception. His office outfit is as grey and yellow as his workplace. If he sat still somewhere, he'd merge with his surroundings and no one would probably even notice his existence.

“Hey John, I’m good,” Molly, the receptionist, probably in her mid-twenties, smiles and fishes in the pile of mail, “These came for you, and... Mr Rutherford called you sometime before.”

“Oh shoot,” John examines it over, “Got late this morning. Bloody rains.”

“No bike today, too?” Molly presses his lips together, a hint of smirk around the edges. John, however, immediately picks up on ‘too’ with a vertical frown between his eyebrows but chooses not to comment. He turns to see the blinds in Sherlock’s office down.

“Is that the new boss?” John turns back to Molly, “Is he here already?”

“Yeah,” Molly glances at the camera, the mention of ‘new boss’ making her sober up at once, “he’s already in a bit of a mood,” she drops her voice further, “doesn’t like the cameras following him around.”

John nods in sympathy. “Well, I’d better go say hi to him before his mood becomes more than a bit.”

"Yeah. Also, friendly warning, Battlestar Galactica night was ruined.”

With a grimace, John turns discreetly to glance at Philip Anderson, “Well... thanks for the heads-up, Molly.”

Molly does a poor curtsy, ceasing to blush as she notices the camera filming. John sets his bag on his chair and plops down, dialling Mr Rutherford furiously. Philip, whose desk lies right next to John’s, sighs exasperatedly.

“Good morning, Mr Rutherford! How are you...? I’m great too! I’m calling to renew your account with H&H, and see if we’re meeting all your paper needs...”

Philip slides off his chair and crawls under his desk to retrieve a mini paper-shredder. He reaches out for a pile of old-looking paper and shoves it into the whirring shredder. Everyone turns to glare at Philip, who carries on, shamelessly oblivious to the ruckus.

"... See, that’s the thing,” John chirps on the phone. “It’s our premium 24-pound letter stock, made entirely from recycled paper, so there are savings in cost along with a much, much more increase in the product quality AIG uses currently... what’s that? I’m sorry, Mr Rutherford, I’m losing you. Hello? Yes, hold on one second...” John covers the mouthpiece and waves at Philip, “Do you really have to do it now?”

“Should have done this weeks ago, in fact.”

John sighs, not having time for this nonsense. “Mr Rutherford, I’m sorry about that. What were you... can you hold on one second? Yeah, just one second. Thanks.” He bends and pulls the power cord, powering off Philip’s shredder, savouring the silence after the din.

"Hello...? That’s it. Perfect! So what I was saying...”

Philip rises and disconnects John’s landline, smiling victoriously as he sits back down.

"Mr Rutherford...? Thanks a lot, mate! Real help, you are!”

Gritting his teeth, John bangs down the handset hard on the landline. Too hard. And then looks at the camera somewhat apologetically, realising his lapse of temper was caught on film.

"Retaliation. Tit for tat.” Philip leans back and promptly restarts the shredder.

* * *

Camera cuts to John sitting in the conference room. He seems to have calmed down now.

“I’ve been a salesman at Holmes & Holmes for the last three years. My job is to, uh... talk to our clients about paper, uh... whether we can supply it to them and, uh... whether they can pay for it. And... I’m,” John starts chuckling, a hint of embarrassment in his voice, “just basically boring myself even talking out loud about it.

“So, Mr Rutherford over at AIG is one of my biggest clients. As a salesman, my salary mostly consists of commissions, and AIG accounts for 20% of my total yearly commission. They really like me over there. Mr Rutherford’s oldest son was in the army, not the same regiment as mine though. He died in combat, so I think they think of me as their son. So, I give them a call twice a year, do a little chitchat, tell them about H&H’s newest products as per their needs, and it works out quite well. I keep sparkling cider in my desk, you know, for the occasion. Also because... we can’t drink at work,” he sighs. "We _can’t_ drink at work, Harry."

Camera pans to Philip, who is still noisily shredding documents.

“I’m just hiding out here till he’s done—oh that? Well, Philip is a big fan of Battlestar Galactica which, as the name suggests, is a television show about battles in stars and galaxies, I think. Every Sunday is Science-Fiction day for Philip. Once I asked him why and he told me it was a cure for Monday blues. Apparently, he finishes Sunday strong so that the “testosterone” generated propels him through the Monday. His words, not mine.”

An annoyed John turns around to glare at Philip through the blinds in the conference room, and then back at the camera.

“As you can see, that is how Monday blues look for Philip. Actually, can you do me a favour? Can you call Philip into the room for ten minutes while I complete my sale and hide his shredder? Thanks a lot.”

* * *

"Come in."

Camera follows John as he walks into Sherlock’s office, “Hi, I’m John Watson. I work as a salesman here.”

They shake hands, and Sherlock scowls at the noise outside, “What the hell is going on outside?”

"That is... Philip shredding some documents and me waiting him out till he’s finished,” he chuckles weakly.

Sherlock grabs his head, “Ugh, close the door!”

John sits down carefully as Sherlock motions him into one of the chairs, “So, tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know, _John Watson_,” his eyes dart from John’s eyes to his hair, breast pocket, wrist, calculating something. “My brother says I also have to invest in my employees, whatever the hell that means.”

John narrows his eyes. “Your brother...?”

Sherlock frowns in confusion at first but shakes his head upon realising it.

“Oh, right, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft’s my brother.”

“Oh, you’re Mycroft, the CEO’s... brother?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow but his smirk is tinged with amusement.

"_Mycroft-the-CEO’s brother? _ Don’t tell me you’re one of those types that gel up their hair to meet that fat git? Wait, don’t. I know you’re not that type, I just wanted to say it on camera. Hmm, interesting, that.”

John glances at the camera discreetly, frowning, but Sherlock catches his line of sight.

“Oh, that? I called my brother fat. There’s no way Mycroft will let that footage go on air... But to answer your now-redundant question, yes, I am. Also, he’s coming by today, to introduce me or whatever.”

John looks at the crew in commiseration. “Well, it was... nice meeting you, Sherlock. I’ll try and get some work done among the din.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John back in the conference room, exasperated as the shredder whirs on and on.

“Oh, how I found the new boss? He’s a bit posh. Seems a bit mad... I also don’t think he’s ever held a real job, seeing how... _blurt-y_ he is. Sorry, I can’t think of a word that sums up ‘somewhat talkative’ and ‘inappropriate’ at the same time. A right old steamroller; doesn’t hold back his thoughts... not that we’re all not thinking what he says but... you know, one doesn’t say those things out loud,” he lets out a chuckle, “Maybe we should.”

The shredding noise gets louder in the background.

“But, yeah, I suppose there’s a bit of a... natural charisma to Sherlock, don’t you think? He’s not the ordinary sort of guy you’d meet in the everyday office... a bit different from what we have here, which is nice. Different is nice. Different is good.”

John closes his eyes with an irritated sigh as Philip’s shredder drones on.

“This was all my fault. I got too cocky trying to push AIG our recycled stock for five per cent more. Should have just got on with it, got my normal commission. That way, I could keep working here for years... and years...”

John blinks after a beat. His shoulders drop.

"And years..."

Camera pans from John’s mildly despairing face over to focus on the break room door. A handsome man, probably in his early forties, walks past Martha Hudson’s and Philip Anderson’s desk, towards the office where Sherlock is half-sleeping at the moment. He seems to mean business, both with his outfit and his gait.

* * *

“Yeah, come in.”

“Yeah, hi, Greg Lestrade, Human Resources rep for this branch,” Greg closes the door behind him and extends a friendly hand, even going so much as to smile at Sherlock. Sherlock regards it with suspicion and rolls his eyes.

“Another divorcee, I see. You don’t want to stay here. Why don’t you do that?” Sherlock goes back to his nap. “Leave. Just leave H&H.”

“Crikey, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” Greg looks at the camera in discomfort, “Just wanted to introduce myself and check-in with you.”

“‘Check-in’ with me? Did Mycroft put you up to this?”

Greg stares at Sherlock, dumbfounded, “Not sure what you mean—”

Sherlock springs from his napping state in a sudden flurry of activity, his gaze fixed over Greg’s shoulder with thinly-veiled resentment. Greg follows Sherlock’s line of sight and straightens up too. A tall, plump man with pasty complexion, dressed in a posh suit is at reception, accompanied by a beautiful woman with perfectly done nails, blood-red lips and a sharp business suit. It’s Mycroft Holmes. He looks around the office space, slowly turning around till he catches Sherlock peering at him intensely through the office blinds. Sherlock ducks immediately.

There’s a sharp knock on the door. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock clenches his jaw, “Bugger!”


	2. Redundancies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft formally introduces Sherlock to the H&H Ferndale branch and gives him his first task as branch manager. John tries to tie down his AIG commission. Philip does not like his new boss.

Camera cuts to Sherlock sitting in his office.

"So, Holmes & Holmes PLC. was founded by my father. Our father... the second 'Holmes' stands for my brother Mycroft. He took over as Chief Executive Officer as Daddy started phasing himself into retirement. I never wanted in. I don't even understand why you want to make a documentary on H&H when there are tons of exciting companies out there. Maybe you got rejected by them hence H&H was the last option? No, you're working under a celebrated filmmaker, plus I can tell you've worked in America too," Sherlock sighs, and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"The only possible explanation? My brother is paying you a sizeable amount to spy on me..."

* * *

"Okay, pretend as if you're telling me something important and shake my hand. Quick, man!"

Greg looks puzzled, but Sherlock grabs his hand and starts shaking it vigorously, adopting a pleasant demeanour out of the blue.

"That's a great joke, uh... what was your name again?"

"Greg Lestrade. HR."

"Yeah alright, come in!"

Mycroft Holmes saunters in with the air of a man who rules over everything as far as the eye can see. He is followed by his female, ever-texting colleague, who looks up briefly to smile condescendingly at Sherlock.

"Oh great, you've met Greg already. I trust everything is well?"

Lestrade extends his hand, "Hello, Mycroft, I'm fine. Irene." He nods politely at Mycroft's colleague, who doesn't look up at first.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room.

"Irene's okay," Greg wipes at his forehead with a napkin, "I mean, she makes my blood freeze over, but she's okay, I think. I'm familiar with both Irene and Mycroft because I worked at the corporate office until last year. Then I accepted a transfer here... I'm not sure what happened. Irene seemed to make some valid points about the Ferndale branch, even with the decrease in pay.

"Then I realised I wanted a change in scenery after my divorce. One _does_ get tired of seeing the old missus swaggering away in the office every day," he attempts a light tone with a self-deprecating smile which turns bitter and fails horribly.

* * *

"Greg, what a pleasure," Irene says flatly, finally noticing Greg. "How is everything? How are you... holding up after...?"

"Good, good," he nods uneasily.

"I'm sorry we couldn't have you in HQ for Sherlock's interview last week, Greg," Mycroft explains kindly. "But Steph was there for the HR side of things, so it all went very smoothly. Come now, Sherlock. Let's meet our employees."

"You mean the slaves?" Sherlock quips, "Sure."

Irene frowns.

Greg looks at camera ominously.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room. He has the air of a man who has given up all hope and motivation.

"Oh well, he's going to get H&H sued."

* * *

We follow Mycroft, Irene, Sherlock and Greg out in front of the reception. Everyone turns around to look as Mycroft clears his throat, in case there's anyone still unaware that he is about to make an announcement.

"Hello, everyone. I trust you all had a great weekend."

Philip sighs audibly. Mycroft ignores the sound and prattles on.

"As you all know, Ed Truck retired last week. He was a great asset to the company, a fearless leader, and above all, one of the smoothest salesmen I've ever known."

A wave of awkward chuckles passes through the room. Mycroft seems quite pleased with himself.

"We wish him all the best for his retirement, which I'm sure he looks forward to spending with his lovely wife and children. Now I know, it was quite difficult to fill his shoes, as some of you who applied for Ed's position might know. We at H&H always expect a lot from our employees because our customers expect the best from us. We are not Staples. We are not Office Depot. We are not Hammermill. We are Holmes & Holmes. We do not do things halfway. We do not treat our customers like numbers on a balance sheet. And we need to see that rigour in our salesmen and saleswomen, our accountants, our supplier reps, our customer reps!"

* * *

Camera cuts to a livid Philip Anderson in the conference room.

"What a load of blasted horse shit! Rigour, my arse! That job should have been mine! I'm the best salesman in the company! Every year since 2002 I've been Salesman of the Year!"

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Shut up, Mycroft. You're not Churchill and this is not 'We Shall Fight on the Beaches'."

* * *

"Let's have a round of applause, for our accountants," Mycroft walks across the room to the Accounting department, "It is their dedication, their hard work, and Sally Donovan's eminent leadership of the Accounting department that led this branch through many a tough time!"

* * *

Camera cuts to an exasperated Sally Donovan in the conference room. Her fiery brown eyes burn with her ardent zeal for justice. Her frizzy curls run amok out of her neat bun in frustration. She cares very deeply about things being fair, and it shows in her darkly flushed cheeks and her disgusted grimace.

"Typical CEOs! Make a mess of things and then patronise people by clapping at them! I'm the head of Accounting! The only female head of a department here. The only black female head of any department across the entire company. I have thirteen years of work experience, same as Irene. That job should have been mine."

* * *

"And Martha," Mycroft turns to Martha Hudson, "don't think I've forgotten you!"

He saunters over to Martha's desk, "Ladies and gentlemen, in a couple of months we'll be celebrating Martha's thirtieth anniversary with H&H. She started as a travelling saleswoman, and has been our senior supplier relations rep for the last seven years, isn't that right, Martha? Give her a big hand!"

* * *

Camera cuts to a laughing Martha Hudson in the conference room. She's too old to care.

"You know what's going on here, don't you?" Martha laughs self-pityingly, "He's trying to appease me with a few tawdry claps because he knows the job was practically mine. That's all this ridiculous clap session is!"

She subsides into another violent fit of self-pitying laughter.

"Why did I ever think they were even considering me the job?"

* * *

"But of course, I digress," Mycroft glows with the validation and working towards the climax of his big speech. "We have some exceptional people in this branch. And only someone who has been groomed in the H&H values the moment he learnt how to walk, someone who has been a part of everything H&H has done, every decision that has steered H&H towards its path of glory can take care of this branch's special needs."

Mycroft indicates to Sherlock who looks like he'd rather dive into a sewer and stab himself in the throat with a sharpened pencil from his new office.

"And who better than to take care of my favourite branch than my brother, Sherlock Holmes!"

Mycroft starts clapping, managing to elicit only scattered, awkward applause from the rest. Whether Mycroft has noticed the lack of enthusiasm is not evident from his joyous face as he places a hand in the small of Sherlock's back and pushes him forward forcibly.

"Erm... thanks for that, Mycroft. I uh—paper is good..."

He steals a glimpse of John Watson, who is glaring at the quartet, his AIG sale still incomplete due to repeated interruptions.

"...I—uh, I've had the—uh, chance to interact with some of you," Sherlock scratches the back of his head. "And I'm sure you'd all love to have me hovering over you and preventing you from working now that my brother has raised your spirits. So, if anybody needs anything at all, too bad. Deal with your problems yourself like the adults you pretend to be."

Mycroft chuckles, "I think what Sherlock means is he'd like to chat with you one-on-one."

Sherlock looks at the camera, expression petulant. He absolutely does not mean that.

"Sherlock, let me first introduce our veteran soldier, Martha, or as I like to call her, Mrs H. She..."

Camera pans to Philip, who has just received a text. He looks over to Accounting. Following his line of sight, we see Sally motioning to him. She spots the camera and turns elsewhere.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room.

"That's why I didn't get the job. Sherlock is the _brother._ Of course, he was going to get the job. All I've got is 10 years of experience cracking the toughest clients and moving them away from Staples and into H&H. All Sherlock Holmes had to do was stay for nine months in the same uterus as Mycroft! You can't compete with shared DNA!"

Philip takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

"If Mycroft Holmes thinks he can get away with awards and applause to run this company, well, he's wrong!"

* * *

We follow Sally Donovan clandestinely as she saunters out of H&H through to the emergency staircase.

"The cameras didn't follow you, right monkey?" Philip asks urgently, stealing a kiss from Sally. She leans in and puts her arms around his neck. They kiss for a while before breaking away breathlessly.

"No Pip, they didn't."

"Good," he exclaims and eagerly leans in to kiss her again, but Sally pushes him away.

"Focus, Pip! I can't take this anymore!"

"Me too! That job should have been mine!"

"Or mine!" Sally reminds him sternly.

"Either way, we've got to do something about this. This Sherlock Holmes is a blithering idiot; doesn't know the first thing about being a manager."

"Do you think... you could check with your buddy down at the station?"

Philip frowns, narrowing his eyes. "You want me to dig up dirt on Sherlock Holmes?"

Sally puts her arms around his neck, "It's only fair," before leaning in to capture his lips in a chaste kiss.

"Okay, I'll see."

* * *

"Mr Rutherford, thank God I could get you on the phone. I'm so sorry for the interruptions. Today's been a rollercoaster at the office..."

Camera pans away from John towards Mycroft and Sherlock as Philip returns to his desk after his secret rendezvous. Mycroft makes eye contact with both the salesmen and John groans almost inaudibly. Time to schmooze.

"Mr Rutherford, I'm so sorry I have to let you go once again. Yeah... yeah, you too."

He bangs the handset down irritably.

"And here we have two of our best salesmen, Philip Anderson and John Watson," Mycroft extends a winning hand towards them. "Philip here has been H&H's Salesman of the year five times in a row. He's truly an inspiration to all the branches."

John looks at the camera with an incredulouslook and shrugs. Philip stands straighter, basking in the high praise. He shakes Sherlock's hand confidently, who looks uninterested in the introductions.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes the younger."

"So Philip," Sherlock pulls a faux-fascinated look, tone obviously exaggerated, "Five times Salesman of Year, impressive! My question to you is: how do you do it?"

"Mr Holmes—do you mind if I call you Sherlock?"

"Mr Holmes is fine," Sherlock simpers coolly. John stifles a chuckle.

Philip looks taken aback. Mycroft laughs uneasily.

"I hope you don't mind, Philip. My brother is a jester," he looks at Sherlock meaningfully, "In fact, that is how he intends to lead our brave troops, isn't that true, Sherlock? With humour and... charisma... and..."

Sherlock glowers at his brother unamusedly. "Ha. Ha. Yes, Philip, you were saying?"

"You can call him Sherlock, don't worry," before Philip can answer, Mycroft swoops in, "We encourage everyone to be on a first-name basis at H&H."

Philip nods awkwardly. "Okay. As I was saying, I like to describe myself using three words: hard-working, alpha male, jackhammer. I never give up and I never take no for an answer."

Sherlock nods mock-interestedly, "Absolutely, Philip. I can see how those traits are so _terribly_ important for an avid chrysanthemum-gardener such as yourself."

Someone giggles a little too loudly. Camera pans over to show Molly Hooper clap a palm over her mouth and look at John with restrained glee. John smirks and then drops all amusement from his expression as the camera pans to him.

* * *

Camera cuts to a dumbfounded Philip Anderson in the conference room. He gapes at the camera for a few moments before collecting himself.

"How did he know that?"

* * *

Camera cuts to a giggling red-faced John Watson in the conference room.

"Oh, God!"

He succumbs to another fit of laughter.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly Hooper in the conference room, who is now chuckling as she rests her head against the wall.

"I am the only person who knew that. Sorry, I _was_ the only person who knew that. A couple of months ago, I saw Philip in a flower contest. No wait, I saw Philip trying to hide from me behind a bunch of chrysanthemums. We mutually decided never to speak of it again. Till now."

* * *

Camera cuts to a livid Philip in the conference room.

"Sherlock Holmes is going down."

* * *

Mycroft closes the door to Sherlock's office behind him, obviously frustrated. Irene is sitting from across Sherlock's chair, her perfectly manicured nails going clickety-clackity on her Blackberry. At the back of the office, Greg's expression speaks of the upcoming fraternal row. Sherlock plops down on his chair, shooting his brother triumphant looks.

"Can you please excuse us?" Mycroft says at last, to the cameras. "Greg, the blinds, please."

We leave Sherlock's office to see the blinds being drawn. However, we can hear the argument through the collar mic.

"Irene," Mycroft exhales in defeat, "I trust you'd like to go first?"

"Sherlock," we hear Irene toss her phone on the desk, "Philip Anderson is a valued employee of ours. I understand he can be a bit too much—"

"A bit too much?" Sherlock exclaims incredulously. "Tell me Irene: ballpark, how many times a year do you meet someone so obsessed with their masculinity that they describe themselves as a 'jackhammer'?!"

"A lot more than you can imagine, Sherlock. At least he said that to your face!"

"Are you calling my brother a jackhammer _à déguisé?" _Sherlock chuckles, "Because if so, I agree wholeheartedly!"

We hear Irene sighing, "I'll cut to the chase. Since our last meeting, the board has decided that we can't financially justify two branches in London."

"What does that mean? The entire branch is fired?"

"No, NO!" Irene exclaims loudly, alarmed. "I've spoken to Jim over at our Bowes Park branch. I've told him the same as you, and it's up to either him or you to convince me that your branch can incorporate the other."

"So no one is fired?"

"No. Not exactly. It just means we have to cut corners any way we can. Per diems, non-essential expenses, benefits etc. Maybe even... redundancies."

She stops to let the gravity of her words sink in. There's pin-drop silence in this room. Sherlock clears his throat after a long period of tense silence, "Okay, fine."

"So you know what to do?"

"Yes. Fire Philip Anderson."

"No, NO, that's not what I was—I mean, that is up to you, as manager."

"You've long since been familiar with Sherlock's unfortunate habit of making _jokes,_ Irene," Mycroft chuckles tightly, but his tone is cold and severe, "I assure you this is one of those."

Irene heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Don't _I_ know it?"

"You don't like jokes, Mycroft?" Sherlock quips, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, I absolutely love jokes, brother dear," the palpitating anger in Mycroft's voice makes it evident how much he appreciates jokes. "Especially when we are involved in a serious discussion about the future of our father's company!"

"_Serious_ discussion?! You are entrusting the redundancy of your oldest branch to a newb like me just so that you can _groom_ me!"

"As Irene said it before, it doesn't have to be Ferndale. It can also be Bowes Park—"

"Utter bollocks, Mycroft! You're willing to let potentially valuable people go just to make it a teachable moment—"

"Gents, gents!" Irene de-escalates, "Let's take a 5. Sherlock, I hope you'll follow due process as I outlined. I'll send out a memo about this tomorrow to all branch managers. If you have any additional questions, I'll be happy to address them. But I want you to get started on this as soon as possible. Is that okay?"

* * *

Camera cuts to John's desk. John is nervously wrapping and unwrapping the landline cord on his index finger. Momentary relief flashes across his face as his call connects.

"Uh, Mr Rutherford, we didn't lose your sale today, did we? Excellent. Okay. Let me just get you... what's that? No, we didn't close last time. I just need the... Oh. W-What code were you given? Oh, okay..."

John glances at Philip's empty desk, at the newly done order forms titled 'A. Rutherford' on them along with Philip's salesman code number. He sighs, shaking his head and pressing his fingers to his eyes.

"That's actually another salesman here. I can redo it if you want to do that... Oh, he gave you a discount? Of course, he did..."

John's face falls visibly.

"No, I don't blame you... I understand. Okay, take care. Bye."

John leans in his chair, puffing up his face as he puts his phone down. We see his eyes wander aimlessly and then rest on Philip's desk. He opens up the bottom drawer on his desk, taking out a small bottle of sparkling cider. There's a blue ribbon tied around the neck, and a card with 'AIG' written attached to it. Shoulders slumped, he places the bottle on Philip's desk, collects his bag and leaves dejectedly.

"See you tomorrow, Molly."

"Bye, John."

* * *

Camera cuts to Mycroft Holmes smoking in the open parking lot. The enthusiastic man who gave the crowd-rousing speech is gone, replaced by a broody cynic who grimaces at his cigarette as if he were punishing it for disappointing him.

"I had no wish to make Sherlock the manager. This branch is tricky; we've got people like Sally Donovan and Martha Hudson and Philip Anderson in the same office. Even Ed Truck faced so many problems managing here. Sherlock will be eaten alive. I'm sure of it."

He throws his cigarette on the ground and crushes the butt.

"But Mummy was insistent. And it's better than rehab. I'm too busy to babysit him over at corporate. Best send him here, keep him in check under your camera, two ballbusting women and a pain-in-the-behind salesman. Sooner or later, people are going to see what a disaster he is, and he'll come home, wounded but safe and sound. And if, meanwhile, he learns how to sound like Father Christmas to 'regular people' like I do, well, it's a win-win either way."


	3. Rumours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumours of redundancies gets out and John confronts Sherlock to address the issue and confirm the news. Needless to say, Sherlock does what Sherlock would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought it would be fun to appropriate Dunder Mifflin's office floor plan for Holmes & Holmes. Hopefully, it's helpful for visualisation purposes.
> 
> But why on earth they'd have one lavatory and four couch seats in the women's room is beyond me

Camera cuts to Martha Hudson, and Greg Lestrade huddled in the break room, drinking mid-morning tea.

"I mean, it was only a matter of time. I knew redundancies were coming months ago," Mrs Hudson glances over Greg's shoulder at Sally warming food in the microwave oven. "I'm just going to make myself some popcorn, sit back and watch this green boy make a complete mess of things. And you can quote me to that old fuddy-duddy."

Greg's eyes narrow. "I'm not Mycroft's sniffer dog. You know that, don't ya, Mrs H?"

Giving him a suspicious look, Mrs Hudson straightens her posture to glare daggers into Sally Donovan's retreating back. She seems somewhat outraged but waits till Sally is out of the door before saying anything.

"Fire Sally Donovan! She never cleans the microwave after using it. I'm the one who always has to clean it!"

Leaping from her chair as violently as she can for her age, she grabs a napkin and starts cleaning the little flecks of mayonnaise in the oven.

"I'm not the housekeeper!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock sitting in his office.

"So I have to... talk about this job? And it's non-optional? Because I can talk about other things as well. For example, you, camera-holding person... Yeah, yeah I really don't care what your name is... I can talk about how I know you're not sleeping on your usual side of the bed. Now, would you call that 'getting lucky'?"

Muffled snickers ensue, but Sherlock's face is stony.

"Okay, I suppose I can spare a few minutes. What do you want to... oh, how I found my first week? Dull, dull, so very dull. Tedious office workers? Not my area. I'm... more of a street thug."

Camera subtly pans to his £1500 suit jacket gathering dust on his desktop PC. Sherlock, however, notices that and throws the jacket out of sight, trying to look innocent.

"Okay, you've earned the right to ask me two more questions," he steeples his fingers, "But nothing idiotic. My tolerance towards idiots is extremely low. I used to have some immunity built up, but obviously, there's a new strain out there, wreaking havoc on white-collar workers," he points towards the desk clumps outside.

"Oh, you want to know about Martha Hudson? She's _lived_. She's definitely lived." Something resembling a smirk grows on Sherlock's lips, "How do I know? Simple. I observe... No, there's a difference. You see, I _observe. _How do I know Molly Hooper attends nursing school at night? Her index finger. How do I know the HR rep's divorce wasn't very mutual? His phone. How do I know John Watson served in the army? His walk and his handshake. I _observe_. People are transparent. That's why I don't like people."

The landline rings shrilly.

"Excuse me... Sherlock Holmes! Okay, put her through... Well, well, well, if it isn't Mrs Adler-Norton! Oh, Irene's fine?"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, jacket back on, sitting straight up.

"Irene Adler-Norton? Mycroft has asked me to refer to her as my boss... She's an old acquaintance of the family and I've had the terrible misfortune of knowing her for the last thirteen years, but I still like calling her by her full name," his lips quirk in a sly smile. "She seems to get irritated for some reason, always throws her off whatever she's about to say to me."

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock on the phone with Irene.

"No, I haven't told anyone that yet... Maybe you did and you forgot about it because you're so lame... But it's not my fault!" he whines, "Why do I have to deal with—okay yes, I keep forgetting I'm the manager... Well, in that case, as branch manager of whatever-who-cares, I declare everything you're saying is stupid."

Sherlock vigorously motions at the crew to leave. We do so and continue filming through the blinds.

"With all due respect, Mrs Adler-Norton... apologies, 'Irene'. Old habits... Fine, I will be 'serious', if that's what you want, 'Irene'," Sherlock rolls his eyes at the camera, "I 'seriously' think we should do nothing because if there's going to be redundancies, people have a right to know if they need to find a new job—"

Sherlock abruptly pulls the handset away from his ear, gawking at his boss' audacity to hang up on _him_ of all people. Camera pans towards the entire office floor. Most, if not all, employees have heard parts of the conversation through the slightly ajar door and deduced the context.

Sherlock buries his face in his palms as some, including Martha Hudson, try to peek in, glancing at each other in apprehension. Finally, Sherlock rises to his feet with a contemplative expression and turns towards the reception.

"Molly, can you come into my office?"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

"Irene Adler-Norton wants me to handle the situation by "assuaging peoples' fears" with false promises," Sherlock adopts a monotone that sounds dead serious and mocking at the same time, "I will not do that. Instead, I will investigate who spread the rumours and then inject the offender with sodium thiopental."

Sherlock does not smile, doesn't assure us if he's completely serious or just joking.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office, with Sherlock sitting in his chair and a nervous, fidgeting Molly standing across his desk, her shoulders slumped, "Take a seat, Molly."

Molly does, trying to appear as small as possible.

"Irene called," Sherlock studies her, "She tells me someone from this branch phoned her, asking to not be fired as they've just taken a mortgage."

Molly blanches. Sherlock looks at her softly yet intensely, a tender smile spreading on his face. He rises from his chair to sit next to Molly. Reaching out, he takes her trembling hand in his uncharacteristically sympathetic one.

"I know _you're_ not the one who phoned her."

Molly blinks several times, taken aback at Sherlock's chivalrous manner. Colour returns to her pasty face.

"I never want you to look so scared, do you understand me?"

Molly nods solemnly and looks down at her lap, blushing, "Yes. Thank you, Sherlock."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, his usual haughty self.

"Of course she didn't do it. But give it a couple more hours, and that little charade will make her tell me who did. I've narrowed it down to two people, but I'm not sure... Oh, how do I know she knows? She's the receptionist, she's the hotbed of gossip in this office. Of course, she knows!"

Someone knocks on the door.

"Give me a second!" Sherlock calls out loudly and resumes whispering to the camera, "It is important to know the potential leaks. I don't want anyone ratting me out to Irene. She's tedious and ridiculous, and I'd prefer never to speak to her ever again... Come in!"

It's John Watson, "Sherlock, wanted to discuss something if you're free?"

Sherlock gives the camera a pointed look, "Sure, John, take a seat."

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Sherlock is interrogating us about who found out and spread the rumour. I did not but, you know, he needs to start thinking like a manager and not like Hercule Poirot. He needs to tell us if this is for real."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office. John is sitting from across Sherlock,

"So John," Sherlock puts on his best charming face, "how can I help you?"

"I just wanted to clear something up: is our branch closing?"

Sherlock chuckles incredulously, "Is _that_ what the ruckus outside is all about?! That this branch is closing?! How preposterous!" He blows a raspberry.

John draws in a sharp breath and watches him, stern, undeterred and unamused. "So it's not closing?"

"People should fit the theory to suit the facts, not fit facts to suit their absurd theories."

"Which are?"

Sherlock frowns, "Which are what?"

"You said _people should fit the theory to suit the facts_. What are the facts?"

"The facts are," Sherlock begins to declare but stops abruptly. John leans forward to meet his eye, the left side of his jaw pulsing. Unimpressed with his manager's performance, he gives the camera an exasperated look.

"Listen, Sherlock," John drops his voice by a register, leaning forward to speak when Sherlock is rendered mute for quite some time, "I understand you managers don't want to reveal stuff too soon. But you've _got_ to step out of your office. People are going mad out there. You need to address this."

Sherlock looks up, somewhat confused. Such earnestness in such a commanding but gentle tone has thrown him off guard. He opens his mouth slightly as if to say something and closes it over and over like a goldfish. After a long time, he looks up at John and abandons his charade of charm.

"I don't want to do this."

John looks taken aback by Sherlock's sudden and honest confession, "You don't want to tell people—?"

"This," he motions to his desk, "THIS! I don't want to do any of this!"

We can see alarm growing on John's already worried face. He motions vigorously at the cameras to leave the office. We comply, but continue filming through the half-drawn blinds anyway.

"Hey, hey, easy Sherlock, take it easy—"

"Scruffy shoes, change of clothes, second bag, chafing, cyclist," Sherlock begins to chant in a monotone, "Expensive watch, 2-year old shirt, cuts his own hair—"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Thinking, John! I'm thinking! Shut up and let me think!"

"You aren't thinking what you need to—"

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock cries out, causing John to jerk backwards in alarm, and Molly outside to jump in her chair when she hears him, "Don't speak, don't move, don't breathe, don't think—I can hear you thinking in your tiny little brain!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room. She's nonplussed at the ruckus coming from Sherlock's office next door.

"He's not firing John, is he? John is a sweetheart!"

We hear more loud voices coming from the next door.

"Excuse me, boys, I'll go check what's happening."

She walks out of the conference room, straightening her grey mid-length skirt. We follow her, and so do all the eyes on the office floor. Greg strains his neck to see where the commotion is coming from. She knocks on the office door.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?"

We hear a sinister growl from inside. After some time, John's voice comes out, "It's alright, Mrs H."

Chewing on her upper lip nervously, Mrs Hudson glances at the camera.

"Oh, dear!"

* * *

"Look, I know this is a difficult issue," John says tightly, casting a wary eye over Sherlock’s shaking form "but you have _got_ to keep it together!" He turns back to see if the cameras are still there, "People can hear us—"

"People can piss off—"

"No, they don't!" John brandishes an angry finger at Sherlock's violent mood swings, his voice rising at an alarming rate, "Like it or not, _you're_ the manager! So, _be_ the manager and take some bloody charge! You're stuck with us, and we're stuck with you. There's no other option."

Sherlock suddenly looks up at John. His face starts to brighten.

"Yes, there is. There's always an option!"

And with that, Sherlock springs out of his chair. John recoils in his chair with whiplash as Sherlock dashes to the door of his office. He throws the door open, runs towards the reception and shoots out of H&H. Because running away from H&H is also an option.

Camera pans to Molly as she blinks, nonplussed. After finally recovering from the shock, John rises from the chair and proceeds to follow Sherlock out of H&H. Camera follows John. There's no one in the lobby, or near the elevators. We pan to John's incredulous face, mouth hung open, unwilling to believe that Sherlock has just done a runner on his own branch.

"This place has gone tits up."

"John!" We hear Molly's voice. He proceeds briskly towards the source of her voice, following it to the conference room. All the employees are huddled near the windows in the conference room. John squeezes in next to Mrs Hudson only to see Sherlock's red Sebring screech out of the parking lot.

"Well, that's it!" Sally throws her hand up in frustration, "There goes the shortest reign in history!"

The phone in Sherlock's office begins to ring all of a sudden. Everyone looks at each other as Molly runs out to answer it from reception. The rest of the employees follow her, waiting for news about redundancy rumours with bated breath.

"Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly. Oh, hey, Irene. Sherlock, uh-he's... stepped out... for fresh air... When will he be back? I'm not sure... okay, I'll ask him to call you once he's back... You too."

The employees are all left hanging, looking at each other blankly. Philip sighs, and steps up, turning to the employees.

"Okay, everyone! In Sherlock's absence, I'll be taking over things. Everyone, back to work!"

"One second," John steps out, frowning, "Who died and made you king?"

"Nature did. In the absence of a leader, the alpha male naturally steps up and takes control of the wolf pack."

Camera focuses on an impressed Sally standing at the back of the group, smirking and twirling her hair. She spots the camera and her smitten manner withers away.

John crosses his arms, a humourless smile on his face, "Oh really? We are wolves now, are we?"

"Yes, John. The modern workplace is a jungle. And it needs a strong alpha male to keep it in order. And you'll be quite surprised to learn how similar our brain chemistry is to that of wolves."

John glances at the camera, unamused and irritated.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally, alone, in the conference room.

"Redundancies? I'm not worried about redundancies! I understand others are, though."

She drops her voice a little bit.

"I think Henry could be the one that gets the axe. Then, Martha can do Quality Assurance in addition to "supplier relations" or whatever the hell she does now."

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson in the conference room.

"Redundancies? It is nature's way of ensuring the survival of the fittest. All the weaklings will be stripped away: John, Billy, Ian, Henry... Maybe not John. I say, bring it on!"

* * *

Camera cuts to the reception phone ring again. Molly Hooper glances at the camera nervously before answering the phone.

"Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly. Oh, hi, Irene. No, he isn't back yet... I'm not sure. Oh, okay, sure. Okay. You too."

She puts the phone down and notices John gazing at her, head cocked to the side, mouth ajar, waiting to hear the news. She solemnly mouths "Irene is coming" to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

As if right on cue, Sherlock bursts in through the H&H main door with a colourful box in his hands. Camera zooms into the box.

It says 'Cluedo'.

"There's been a murder in Tudor Mansion!"


	4. Cluedo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attempts to devise an elaborate distraction for his employees now that news of redundancies has spread through the H&H branch. Irene is not amused.

Camera cuts to John in conference room. Brows knitted, he glares at the camera.

"Mrs Hudson bet me a week for Sherlock to snap. I bet 'more or less than a week'," he shakes his head. "She's like the Oracle."

* * *

Camera cuts to reception where Sherlock now stands, clutching a box of 'Cluedo', his excitement enough to rival that of a child who's just discovered ice cream.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there's been a murder in Tudor mansion!"

We pan to see Molly gawking at him with incredulity, over to a half-amused Sally Donovan peeking from Accounting behind the reception, and finally to Greg who's burying his head in his palms out of embarrassment on Sherlock's behalf. Despite it being glaringly obvious that no one else shares his enthusiasm, Sherlock, undeterred, prances up to John, grinning widely at his apparently genius idea.

"Nine rooms, six potential murder weapons and six suspects, endless possibilities—"

"324!" Sally cuts him off loudly.

"Sorry what?"

"324 possibilities."

Sherlock is even more delighted. "See? Sally gets it!"

"I really don't."

"Sherlock..." John tries to cut him off, to no avail, as Sherlock seizes him powerfully by the shoulder, causing John to reach out for his desk to grab on to lest he should fall.

"John Watson, everyone. He was the one who inspired this brilliance! Conference room, everybody, five seconds!"

"Do we have to?" Philip grumbles loudly, smacking files on his desk sharply to indicate his displeasure.

"Yes, Philip. Mandatory work retreat. If you don't do this, no raises for you. Hey, look, we're saving the company money! Now we don't have to lay anyone off!"

Shocked gasps ensue from across the office, with some demanding 'we're getting laid off?' Sherlock looks at the camera like a deer caught in headlights. Greg quickly makes it to Sherlock and starts doing damage control as people start getting more restless.

"This is not concrete news, everyone. No one's getting laid off. No raises are getting cancelled." He gives Sherlock a stern look, "Let's all get back to work—"

"No, NO! Conference room, everybody! Right now!"

John looks at the camera in disapproval, shaking his head. Mrs Hudson taps on his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, "Can he actually do that?"

"If he does, we can report him to corporate," Sally quips, flashing an insincere smile, "Oh wait, his brother is corporate!"

John gives Mrs H a distressed look as they drag their feet after Sally into the conference room.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock leaning against the reception. We can see the other employees mingling in the background.

"Yes, I've played Cluedo before. The rules are awfully restrictive. That's not how real murders happen. For example, I once deduced from the clues that it was not a murder, but a suicide. After all, if you put an old nutter like Mr Black alone in a room with a gun and no other suspect, it's the only possible explanation. But Mycroft said it wasn't in the rules. That's not how these things go! A depressed man is not going to not-kill himself because it wasn't in the _rules_! Typical Mycroft."

Sherlock sighs and proceeds to mimic a very unflattering impression of Mycroft by tucking his head into his chest so he can sport a double chin, "_'It's not in the rules, Sherlock. You complain so much, Sherlock. You're so stupid, Sherlock'. _Well, Mycroft, you are a pot roast away from upsetting Earth's rotational axis!

"Also, you never see six detectives together solving one case. If six detectives are needed to solve one murder, then they are all idiots."

* * *

Camera cuts to conference room. All the employees are now sitting obediently.

"Now I'm sure you're all familiar with the rules."

There's an affirmative chorus from everyone.

"Good, now forget the rules!" Sherlock opens the Cluedo box and throws away the board. "We are going to play Cluedo: Street style."

"That's... not a real game," Greg retorts.

"Yes, it is. It's much better. Now, in Cluedo, what we do is we have to guess three things: the murderer, the weapon and the room. In Street style Cluedo, all you have to do is guess the murderer, because, obviously."

Obviously what?" John interrupts.

"Obviously, the room the victim has been found IS the scene of the crime."

John processes this, tight-lipped, and looks at the camera with an incredulous smile as if to say _I can't believe it but he's got a point there._

"And once you take a look at the victim, it'll be obvious how he's been killed, seeing as the choices are a rope, a gun, and... basically the choices are limited and easy to guess."

"But there's no actual murder victim, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson points out.

Sherlock's excitement grows, "Oh, there will be." Everyone is a little shocked at the suggestion, but Sherlock promptly clears it up by declaring, "I will be the victim!"

Suddenly, a very skinny, hollow-eyed, scruffy young man bursts into the conference room, "Sorry boss, I'm late. What's going on?"

"Just in time, Billy," Sherlock shoots finger-guns at him. "There's been a murder."

Billy Wiggins nods pensively, "Oh, alright boss, give me 5 minutes. I'll be right back after I set my things."

* * *

Camera cuts to the window in Sherlock's office. Through it, we see Billy Wiggins now running like the devil out of the office parking lot, screaming "Murder!". A few passers-by take note, concerned.

* * *

Camera cuts back to conference room. Sherlock is now passing out suspect and weapon cards, which he has sealed in an envelope.

"I have written 'KILLER' on the back of one of your suspect cards. Which one, you ask? Only I know. I will give you all fifteen minutes to make up a character history and a robust and convincing alibi. Since you all are too slow to follow, I've provided notepads, courtesy of H&H, so you can write anything of interest about any of the suspects. Then you can start investigating each other to find out who's the killer. So all you have to do, Mr Killer, keep your stories straight, and rest of you try to find flaws in each other's alibi."

"So the killer is a man," Molly remarks. Sherlock scowls.

"No, it isn't. Why would you say that?"

"You said 'Mr. Killer' so..."

"No, I didn't."

A mixed chorus of 'yes, you did' and 'you did say that' ensues. Sherlock scoffs.

"Fine, it was a misdirection."

"So it's a woman."

"I said it's a misdirection," Sherlock growls, "So it means you can go right ahead and _ignore it!"_

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in the main office space outside the conference room, brows knitted, nostrils flared.

"This is not as fun as I thought. I have to spell everything out for everyone!"

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the main office space. His glowing amusement makes him look ten years younger.

"Oh how's it going, you ask? Um... Sherlock tells us we're stupid in one breath and provides us notepads in the next so we can make up for how slow we all are. He keeps interrupting and correcting us when he thinks we're not making the correct_ 'deductions'_," John makes moving air quotes. "Not sure if he's a cock or just helpful."

"What else, let's see. Uh... we are not working. We are playing a distorted version of a popular game because Sherlock thinks it's not good enough for him. The Bracknell branch is working through lunch, right now, to avoid redundancy. But Sherlock has decided to extend our lunch by one more hour so we can solve his murder. Marvellous, innit?"

"John!" Sherlock calls loudly, peeping out of the conference room, "It's your turn!"

"One second!" John replies loudly and then turns back to the camera, whispering, "It's my turn to introduce my character. I'm... Colonel Mustard," he purses his lips and exhales. "Why does it feel like Sherlock _wanted_ me to be Colonel Mustard? Does he know?"

"John!"

"Gotta go, bye!"

We see John scamper away at Sherlock's command. Camera zooms towards the conference room. We see Sally and Anderson standing very close to each other, whispering intimately, unbeknownst to the others.

* * *

Camera cuts back to conference room. Most of them standing in groups of two, either engaged in conversation or scribbling away in their notepads, getting pretty much into the game. Some have simple props with them made out of paper. Mrs Hudson is fanning herself gracefully with a paper fan, talking down to a frazzled Molly.

"Sorry, Mrs Peacock," Molly curtsies to her, speaking in a weird Cockney accent. "I'll make sure the dishes are done, and dusting is proper."

"Splendid! Thank you, dear!" Mrs Hudson has adopted a derisive posh accent. "And I don't want any nasty business at the dinner tonight like the Babbingtons last week. Make sure of that."

"Certainly, ma'am."

Camera pans to Anderson and Sally, whispering close. Anderson's eyes are fixed on Sherlock.

"So I called my buddy down at the station yesterday."

"Mm-hmm."

"I had him run a background check on Sherlock Holmes. See if there're any known aliases, etc."

"And?"

"He wasn't volunteering yesterday. I'll ask him tomorrow once again."

Sally rolls her eyes and struts away out of the conference room, much to Anderson's indignation.

As if right on cue, a landline starts ringing loudly in Sherlock's office. Everyone in the conference room turns to Sherlock, awaiting his response, but Sherlock remains rooted to his spot, stony expression on his face betraying nothing.

"Are you not going to answer that?" Philip glowers at him. Sherlock shushes at him loudly but is drowned by an avalanche of voices demanding he answer the phone. Instead, Molly runs out to answer it from the reception. Suddenly, everyone has lost whatever interest they had in Sherlock's made-up version of Cluedo. They await the bad news, if any, with bated breath.

"Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly. Oh, hey, Mycroft. Yeah, he is... Okay, I'll transfer you."

Sherlock sprints out of the conference room in panic, but he's too late as the phone starts ringing in Sherlock's office once again. He steals a glimpse of all the employees looking at him and drags himself inside like a sentenced prisoner walking to the noose. We follow him into his office as he picks up the phone sheepishly.

"Mycroft... Yes... No... Yes... Yes... I understand. Thank you for telling me."

He puts down the mouthpiece and looks at Molly through the blinds. She comes into the office, eyes wide with apprehension. lips curving down at the corners, "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhales and blinks several times rapidly. "There's been another murder!"

* * *

Camera cuts to H&H main door. Irene Adler-Norton, texting rapidly, walks in, not raising her head. She stops at the reception, apparently expecting someone to wish her good afternoon, and finally looks up to see the entire workplace empty. She turns around to find Sherlock's office empty too. A phone is ringing lazily in a distant corner.

Frowning, she prances towards the conference room, hearing voices emerge from there. She pushes the door open to reveal Mrs Hudson lying on the floor, playing dead. Sherlock is kneeling over her and appears to be sniffing. John, Greg and Molly are standing over them, each frozen in a different pose: bagging evidence, inspecting the murder weapon and just looking awkward respectively.

Sally sits straight in her chair when she spots Irene. The rest take note only when the room starts growing silent. Sherlock follows their gaze to find a flabbergasted Irene glaring at him, jaw hung open. He smiles slightly, unsuspecting.

"Oh, hey, Irene. We're playing Cluedo."

"Street style," Mrs Hudson whispers.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Sherlock hisses back.

It takes Irene a while to recover from the scene in front of her. She purses her lips and slowly walks away towards Sherlock's office. John hangs his head down. Mrs Hudson props herself up on her elbows.

"Go."

An oblivious Sherlock frowns at John.

"She's your boss. Go after her!" he hisses.

Reluctantly, Sherlock rises, slouching his shoulders and stumping down to his office. We follow to see Irene take off her coat and deposit it on one of the chairs at the back. Sherlock shuts the door and observes her as she caresses his chair with her index finger, sitting down in his chair and splaying her palms on his desk, claiming his place and his position in a subtle power move meant to remind Sherlock that _she_ is his boss, that he's answerable to her. Camera pans to the entire office floor. No one has yet dared to step out of the conference room.

Irene watches him silently for a long, tense while. Sherlock, however, doesn't back down, choosing to face her incoming wrath head-on. Finally, she breaks the pin-drop silence with an angry exhale.

"I'm going to skip right past the what and go with why," she leans back in Sherlock's chair, asserting her superiority. "Why, Sherlock?"

"Because they need it."

"Oh, really? They _need_ it? They need to spend a whole day without work in a company which is struggling to avoid layoffs?" She smacks his desk hard and springs up from the chair so quickly it almost hits the wall behind her. "Do you know I drove all the way here from Bedford?! They made two employees redundant today!"

"I'm aware."

"TWO EMPLOYEES! Bracknell and Bowes Park are working through lunch to avoid the same fate! And _you_ thought playing a game is really the best—?!"

"Yes, Irene!" Sherlock bellows, drowning her out, "They need this stupid little game, alright? Because there's nothing else for me to do in a situation like this! I can't stop the layoffs, and I refuse to give them false hope! These are regular people, and they've been going off their rockers with speculation! No one wanted to work! A couple of them were even updating their resumés! And they would have been doing the same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that!"

Irene gapes at him, livid. Grabbing her coat, she marches past Sherlock without another word and saunters out of H&H. Camera pans to conference room. Most of the employees are peering through the blinds. As Sherlock starts to turn back towards the conference room, they all duck out of sight.

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock sitting in Sherlock's office huddled in the chairs near the windows. John's face is red and scrunched up with giggling into the back of his palm while Sherlock chuckles heartily.

"Oh, I completely see what he was trying to do!"

"You mean what I _succeeded_ in doing, Colonel Mustard."

"Shut up," John punches his arm playfully. "I knew it! You gave me Colonel Mustard on purpose!"

"But you didn't know who was the murderer, though."

"It was Professor Plum. You changed your mind abruptly!"

"I didn't _change_ my mind, John!" Sherlock turns to the camera, adopting a more serious, branch-manager-worthy demeanour, "The facts of the case changed. It happens all the time in real murders."

"THE FACTS _YOU_ CREATED! I'm sorry, you're unbelievable!" John snorts. "This man," he points at Sherlock, "created an elaborate ruse to stop everyone in the office from thinking about redundancies!"

"Well, it worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I don't think I'm ever going to be able to think about redundancies ever again without thinking of Cluedo. Well done, boss." 

Sherlock looks down at his lap, slightly red and embarrassed at the open praise. "That was the plan."

John grins, following Sherlock with his eyes. "I really thought you'd done a runner. I was so mad at you."

"I always have a plan, John," he says matter-of-factly, "I'm a genius. You should know that by now."

Camera focuses on John's face, his glazed eyes on Sherlock, beaming, as Sherlock smirks at the camera, oblivious.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

"Oh, I didn't have a plan. I actually did run away without any intention of ever coming back. But I couldn't stop thinking about what John had said to me, about how they were all stuck with me and how I was stuck with them. That was when I saw the game in the window of a toy shop," he brandishes the empty Cluedo box at the camera.

A beat passes, and then he leans in, "But don't tell John I said that. He's already beginning to think so highly of me..."

Sherlock slips into his introspective mode, steepling his fingers together, "I rather like talking to the camera. Fascinating. Perhaps it's because I think better when I talk out loud. Plus, I get to hear my voice and nobody talks back and bores me with chatter... maybe I should make this a permanent arrangement, ask Mycroft to draw some non-disclosure agreements, beat him at his own game—"

There's a knock on his door. "Come in."

It's Molly. "Sherlock, I have something to tell you."

Sherlock glances at the camera pointedly. "Yes, Molly, take a seat."

"The thing is, no one in this office has taken a mortgage recently, car or house. Only Greg had his address changed, and his flat is a lease."

"Interesting," Sherlock straightens in his chair, "well, thank you, Molly. Good work today."

There's a 'hyah' from the conference room next door. Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Are they still there?"

Molly nods mutely. Sherlock sighs, irritated. She purses her lips together and rises to her feet, "Have a good weekend, Sherlock."

"You too, Molly."

Once she's out of the door, Sherlock turns to the camera excitedly, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"I don't have a rat; I have a saboteur!"

"I'm not going down for this!" Anderson yells from next door. Sherlock gives the camera an eye-roll.

"It seems Cluedo was too big a hit. It has officially spiralled out of my hands."

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room. Greg, Mrs Hudson and Anderson are standing around each other, arms outstretched, finger guns pointing at one another.

"Okay, on three," Greg throws all of them wary looks, "we're all going to put down our guns. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. Mrs Hudson?"

Mrs Hudson throws him a look, "Okay fine."

They begin lowering their arms gradually, down, down. Then Mrs Hudson meets Anderson's eyes and her hands are back up with a loud, 'hyah'.

"You are dead, Professor Plum!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock as he is gathering his things into his attaché.

"So Greg revealed himself to be the murderer, at which point Philip felt comfortable revealing that he also was a murderer and then Mrs Hudson, who had already been murdered, declared to everybody that she was a, get this, double agent and that she was actually alive. Oh, and it's 6 o'clock."

As he says this, camera zooms to his face. He has the tiniest smile on.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room.

"Yes, I watch a lot of crime thrillers. I like, uh... _Crime Suspect_, _Poirot_. I also have all _Law & Order_ DVDs," he perks up a little. "I'm actually working on a series of detective novels. It's about an office worker who solves crimes at night. Why do you ask?"


	5. Birthday Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock implements ways to cut miscellaneous spending. However, the results are not as good as he expected. And everybody wants their own cake.

"... _Your call is important to us. We'll assign a customer service representative shortly_... "

We see John rapidly typing an email, deftly balancing a landline handset in the hollow between his shoulder and his ear, the hold music playing softly. Suddenly, John looks up to find the camera very close to his face.

"What?"

Camera pans to Sherlock's office. John follows the path and turns around to see Sherlock napping, head resting on folded arms. We hear John sigh as he puts down the handset, careful not to hang up, and gets up from his desk. He knocks lightly on the door, "Hey."

Sherlock doesn't budge. John knocks a little bit louder, making Sherlock spring from his nap with a wide yawn.

"Were you... sleeping?" John squints at his tousled head.

"Brainstorming," Sherlock rubs his eyes sleepily. "I don't sleep."

John's eyes narrow as he looks at the camera suggestively. "Right."

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Sherlock gets bored very quickly," John nods his head gravely. "Today is the 10th of October, so he's supposed to sign off on our expense reports, pay stubs, things like that, by the end of the week. Because payroll processes salaries by the 15th of each month. I don't think he's up for the task.

"So Sherlock and I have made a deal. Whenever he dies of boredom, it's up to me to revive him," John purses his lips, sighing. "Of course, before I made this deal, I had no idea how often Sherlock got bored," John tucks his chin with an introspecting look. "Do you think I should renegotiate my salary?"

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock's office. John closes the door behind him and sits down from across Sherlock.

"Expense reports did you in?"

"Yup!" Sherlock groaned, popping the 'p'. "I tried calling you. Your phone was busy."

John frowned, "I sit right outside your office."

"Meh. Too far. Besides, I figured you were working."

"Wow, you don't want to disturb people while they're working," John pouts appreciatively but amusement dances on the edges of his ironic smile, "Just like a good boss."

Sherlock catches John's eye, a long, tender smile growing on both their faces, which dies when John notices the camera filming their moment.

"In all seriousness, though, I wasn't working," John shrugs, "I was on hold actually."

Sherlock frowns, "For... an hour?"

"Cold calls. I read somewhere that the record is 15 hours and 40 minutes," John blinks sheepishly. "The music is a plus."

Sherlock's lips twitch in a quick smirk, "Mmm. I have a theory. But I want to test it on someone."

As if in unison, Sherlock sticks out his neck and John turns around to peer at a diligently working Philip Anderson through the blinds. And to each other knowingly.

"He's working," John complains weakly, his transparently lame attempt at being the reasonable one crashing and burning like a spaceship into a desert.

"Full marks for observation, John."

"No, no! He's working, but he _looks_ like he needs a break," John arches one eyebrow suggestively.

"AH!" Sherlock sniggers conspiratorially.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

"So John and I sometimes... perform social experiments," he nods, with a hint of a serious frown, "for purely managerial reasons, of course. Managers need to be well-versed in the art of... society. That's the only word that comes to my mind which describes what we're doing. It's such a complicated subject that no words have yet been invented to describe what we're doing."

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Pranks," he deadpans. "That's the word that describes what we're doing."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office as he outstretches his neck, narrowing his eyes as he surveys his kingdom. Greg is chatting Molly up, whose half-eaten yoghurt is precariously close to the edge of the reception podium. Mrs Hudson dumps a heap of reports on Sally's desk. Philip is still working diligently.

Sherlock smirks at the camera as if to say _it's 'go time'. _He gets up from his desk, straightening his suit jacket and grabbing a small pile of papers, saunters out of his office and smacks it on a startled John's desk, who is still on hold.

"John, I need you to redo these order forms. The serial numbers are all wrong."

Camera pans towards Philip. His concentration is broken for a second before promptly going back to work.

John squints up at Sherlock, "No, they aren't. These yellow ones are for Feinstein & Green for the 16-pound, so the code starts with an 'R'. The pink and green ones are for..."

We hear a faint, high-pitched hum. Sherlock looks at camera discreetly and goes back to John's long-winded explanation about codes in order forms. Philip's ears pick up at once.

"Wait!" Philip interrupts loudly and looks around him swiftly, trying to locate the source of the sound. "Do you guys hear that?"

No one says anything, making Philip frown in bewilderment and returning to his work. The sound has now ceased.

"... so, as I was saying, the pink and green ones are re-order forms for Lansdowne School—"

"THAT!" Philip bursts out again and immediately turns pink with embarrassment as an annoyed Sherlock glowers at him.

"Do you mind, Philip? John and I are having a conversation."

"Sorry," he mutters, wincing at his cold tone. "I keep hearing a high-pitched hum."

"I'm sorry, I don't hear anything. Maybe check the radiator?" John offers kindly.

Sherlock frowns, "Mm, no. I don't hear anything like that. Maybe you should quit this company."

"Excuse me?"

"I said maybe you should get your ear checked. What's the matter with you?"

Philip looks extremely confused at this point. "I'm sorry, I thought I heard something else."

Sherlock throws him a sharp look and returns to his discussion with John. He glances at the camera, a twinkle replacing his frown of suspicion and looks down at John, who is red with the effort of containing his glee. Sherlock winks and starts to emit his high-pitched hum again.

"... so Lansdowne School mainly uses our 75 GSM copier paper, 11-point manila folders, so these pink and green forms, which start with A and end with 2..."

At this point, we see Philip, without reacting, getting up from his seat, and crawls under his desk, trying to locate the source of the sound. He hits his head underneath while sliding out, prompting the other employees to turn around and see what's happening. He gets up, massaging his head, and stretches himself towards John's desk.

"Oh, alright. I see that now. That was a mistake. I'll get on these right away, boss."

"Okay, good." Sherlock taps his fingers on John's desk and walks away back to his office. He is grinning delightedly while a confounded Philip keeps hunting for the sound. Once the door is closed, Sherlock rubs his palms together excitedly.

"And approximately 2 minutes later, Anderson will accuse John of making that sound, and I will call them into my office. Five minutes later, he'll be calling an ENT doctor for an urgent appointment," he steeples his fingers thoughtfully. "I haven't made up a name yet."

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, licking his lower lip, chuckling.

"We called it _Pretendonitis._ He's making a lunchtime appointment as we speak."

John shakes his head, tucking it into his chest as a fond smile blooms over his lips.

"Sherlock is... he's great. The more I talk to him, the more I realise how clever he is. But he doesn't know this world: the world of spreadsheets and sales and financials and..." he swallows, "team meetings. Out of all of us, he's at the most disadvantage here. So, it's nice to... make it all easier for him. Makes me feel useful, for once, you know, because otherwise, my job is to cure cancer, so..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson knocking on Sherlock's door.

"Come in."

She swings the door open to a Sherlock signing expense reports, signature alternating between 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Shezza'. Mrs Hudson notices that, but chooses not to make any observation, "Sherlock, we need to order a cake. For Billy's birthday."

Sherlock frowns, sitting up straight in attention. "Wasn't it someone's birthday last week?"

"Yes, it was Ian's birthday. It's 'Birthday Month'. Billy's is today, Molly's is the week after next, and Philip's is at the end of the month."

Sherlock blows a raspberry, "Okay, sure."

Once she's out with the door closed behind her, Sherlock turns to the camera and huffs.

"The things one has to do to keep up the spirits of common people. _Birthdays _!" he exclaims distastefully like a two-year-old saying 'potty'.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, eyes closed, brows furrowed, forehead propped on folded hands as we hear a couple of electronic voices on the phone clashing and interrupting each other on the teleconference. We can make out specks of Irene's voice alternating between cutting off and being cut off. Sherlock looks at the camera, huffing with annoyance and rolling his eyes.

"Hey, hey, Irene, can I say something? Can I say something?" A particularly slow and deep voice is finally the winner among all the interruptions. Everybody else relents.

There is an obviously exasperated sigh. "Go on, Steve."

"This will be a very unpopular decision, Irene! I don't think what you're making us do is fair!"

"I know it sounds unfair, but the times are hardly fair," Irene's voice is almost sympathetic. "These preemptive measures and cuts in non-discretionary spending will go a long way into ensuring we come out strong in the fourth quarter."

Sherlock stretches towards the camera and whispers, "Steve has asthma, judging from his breathing, and an undetected heart condition," his ears perk up as he listens harder. "Fingers tapping on the desk, nervousness. His phone is on speaker, with his entire branch. What a moron—"

"What's that?" Irene's voice rings out sharply like a bullet. "Sherlock, is that you?"

Sherlock gulps, realising he hadn't muted himself, and hangs up, trying to look innocent in front of the camera.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, looking straight at the camera.

"Every Wednesday, all branch managers of H&H PLC. have a weekly meeting with Irene Adler-Norton. It's tedious, it's stupid, it's pointless, but it is entertaining at times. This week, she has given all the branch managers a task."

Sherlock holds up a health insurance brochure.

"I have to pick a new plan. After some prodding, Irene revealed that the objective was not to provide our employees with reasonably good healthcare but to cut costs by selecting a cheap plan that caters to the important medical conditions," Sherlock grimaces. "Hopefully this will be the smallest task I ever have to do in here."

* * *

Camera cuts to the fax machine in the reception. Molly stirs to see a memo being printed. She squints. It's from Sherlock. She pulls it out and reads carefully as Greg cheerfully comes up to her in the reception.

"Hey."

"Hey," she hands him the memo. "Is this for real?"

Greg gives it a glance, "I... might have heard of something like this."

Molly gives him an anxious look. Greg backpedals, "I'll... talk to Sherlock about this."

As if on cue, Molly's phone starts ringing, "Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly... Oh, hey, Sherlock! Listen, I just... okay, I'll make the copies, but I just had a few questions on—"

The dial tone plays. Sherlock has hung up on her. She looks from Greg to the camera with a concerned look and gets up to collect the memos. Camera pans towards the rest of the office as she leaves the podium to make several copies and distribute them. We follow to see John and Philip both frowning, bewildered. The muttering begins, and gets louder, as Molly passes the memos to employee after employee. We hear Sally scoff. Mrs Hudson turns around and wheels to John's desk.

"Is this for real?"

"I don't know, Mrs H. It could be a joke."

Mrs Hudson scowls, "A joke?!"

"You know, like April fools—"

"There's no dental, there's no vision, there's no coverage for dependents!"

"Not to mention there's an £890 premium," Philip glowers. "This is outrageous! And right after I made my ENT appointment!"

"Okay, I'll bell the cat," John placates them, but he doesn't look too confident. He gets up, throwing them a commiserating look, and walks up to the door to Sherlock's office. He knocks a little too sharply.

"Come in!"

He swings the door open as we film from the blinds, "Hey, Sherlock—"

"John. Perfect timing. Did you get my memo?"

"Yeah, about that... why'd you do that?" He starts to come in and closes the door behind him, crossing his arms.

Sherlock raises one eyebrow in confusion at John's hostile body language, frowning, "What did I do?!"

John peers at him in bewilderment, "What did you do? You made a really horrible plan! You slashed benefits to the bone! What the _hell's_ wrong with YOU; it's like a pay decrease!"

"We have to cut costs, John." The 'obviously' is calmly implied, which only sets John further on edge.

"So, of all things, you cut health insurance?! Good managers don't do _that!"_

"I don't think I said this was up for discussion!" Sherlock barks back, glaring at him icily.

John recoils at the sharp tone, taken aback. He looks at the camera emptily, jaw pulsing, and throws the door open. He retreats back to his desk, head bowed and shoulders drooping.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, looking down at his palms, lips downturned, looking crestfallen.

"It's as if Sherlock doesn't even care about us... I should have known. He's my manager..." he shakes his head, disappointed. "Managers don't care. You can't be friends with your manager..."

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock in his office, alone, still glaring, brows furrowed, the very picture of annoyance.

"I don't understand why John had to have a shouting row over something so obvious! If I don't cut excess spending, this branch will be made redundant. And if John doesn't have a job, how the hell will he have _health insurance?"_ Sherlock snaps mockingly. "It's the only logical solution."

He huffs, looking a teensy bit guilty. "John is getting all worked up over nothing. I hardly ever get sick. Can't they... not get sick, and not get into accidents?"

He looks up to see a delivery man arrive at the reception with a box which can only contain cake. Mrs Hudson signs for the delivery and takes it away towards the break room. Sherlock's eyes widen as he gasps; as if he's just had an epiphany.

"I know just how to get us out of this mess! All they need is a distraction," Sherlock smirks at the camera, scouting the office from his vantage point, "It worked the last time and it'll work this time too."

He crouches in his desk, keeping an eye out for activity in his kingdom—a glare from Accounting, a frown from Customer Service. Right as Mrs Hudson returns from the break room, Sherlock leaps from his chair and jogs up to his office door.

"Martha, can I talk to you in my office?"

She nods wordlessly and follows Sherlock into the office, who motions her into one of the chairs, "So Martha, I've come up with something. Why don't we simply do one big, shared party today?"

Mrs Hudson blinks, nonplussed. "For?"

"Birthday month."

She narrows her eyes, "What?"

"There's too much waste of time and money behind these frivolous celebrations in this office. Getting these out of the way at once will increase productivity and cut down miscellaneous spending, and we can make more space in our budget for more important things..."

Mrs Hudson leans forward and surveys his posture cautiously. Sherlock, all pokerfaced and steepled fingers, doesn't seem to be joking. Her face twists into a smile, and she crosses her legs.

"So, you're shaking things up a bit, huh?"

Sherlock frowns. Her reaction is unexpectedly docile. "It's a pretty good idea."

_"Do_ you really think it's a good idea, son?" She rests her elbows on his desk. Sherlock notices that and looks back up at her suspiciously.

"Yes, I do, Martha."

Mrs Hudson chuckles a little and starts getting up. "Okay, dear, sounds good! I'll be out if you need me."

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in a conference room. She squeals gleefully, making high-pitched hysterical noises as she laughs.

"There was a time when I would have said that I'd rather work for an upturned broom with a bucket for its head than for a green boy like Mycroft Holmes' little brother... But times have changed," she chortles. "Sherlock is a darling. And I'm old, and I like free entertainment. And today is going to be a... what do you kids call a matinee these days?"

* * *

Camera cuts to the fax machine in the reception. Molly turns to see another memo being printed. She squints. It's from Sherlock. Again. She huffs and pulls at it.

"Is this for real?" she mutters under her breath.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly knocking tentatively on Sherlock's door, who is about to walk out his office.

"Hey, Sherlock. Can I have a word?"

"Yes, you can have a word," Sherlock nods, gritting his teeth at the interruption, "Goodbye."

Left staring at the camera, Molly blinks, dumbfounded, before beginning to stalk Sherlock out of his office towards the break room. "I just, uh... wanted to ask something, if you don't mind..."

"If it's about health insurance..." Sherlock begins in a warning tone.

"No, no," she starts shaking her head, struggling to keep up with his pace as Sherlock huffs and holds the break room door open for her. "I wanted to ask you if I can have an ice cream cake?"

Sherlock stops abruptly and peers at her quizzically. When he doesn't speak further, she clarifies, "For my birthday?"

"It's your birthday today?"

"It's next week, but we're having the celebration today?"

"Oh, right. Do whatever you want. Party planning committee is in charge."

"Thank you, Sherlock!" She grabs his wrist gratefully, beaming at him, as she hurries back to reception. Sherlock looks down at where she almost hugged him and gazes after her, only for it to shift and become wistful. Camera pans to see John turning away to his computer, resolutely typing away as if he has been caught staring at someone.

Camera pans back to Sherlock. His expression hardens as he spots the camera and turns away towards the break room. We follow to see him get a refill on his coffee.

"So, that was easy, right?"

Sherlock looks up from the coffee machine. Mrs Hudson, holding a newspaper, is inspecting him from over her glasses with a twinkle in his eyes. Sherlock stands up straight, his lips quirking in a half-smile.

"I suppose Molly likes me."

Mrs Hudson smiles kindly at him, "Oh, that she does, honey!"

There's a sharp knock on the break room door, making him turn abruptly. It's Billy. He doesn't look pleased.

* * *

Camera cuts to Billy Wiggins and Sherlock in Sherlock's office. Sherlock is clutching his head, while Billy leans over Sherlock's desk, peering at him.

"I hate ice cream cake!"

"Well, Molly—"

"Who cares about Molly? It's _my_ birthday! I want peach pie! And a nice cobbler!"

"Ugh, go tell Martha what you want. Don't bother me!"

"Okay, fine! But if you don't get it done, don't expect me to show up. It's after all MY birthday today!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Billy in the conference room. He is pissed off.

"Who the hell does he think he is? It's my special day... wait, I don't understand what you're asking... we're getting our health insurance cut? What's a 'health insurance'? And how's that more important than my birthday cake?!"

* * *

Camera cuts to break room. Sally, Philip, John, Greg, Molly and Billy are all sitting in staggered tables, with varying degrees of indignation and anger on each other's faces.

"What was he even thinking?" Sally shakes her head. "First, the insurance and now the birthdays."

"What can you expect?" Molly sips her tea. "He made us play Cluedo and wasted an entire workday."

"I think the power went to his head."

"It's just a birthday. So what if there are lots of them?"

"I work all day from 8 to 5," Philip sighs. "I like knowing there's going to be a break."

"Yeah," Billy quips. "Most days, I sit and wait for the break."

Philip looks at him in bewilderment.

"Speaking of which," Billy continues, ignoring Philip, "folks, d'you know what's a 'health insurance'?"

Everybody looks at him weirdly.

"At least I'm having my ice cream cake," Molly twinkles, eyes darting from side to side for everyone's reactions.

"Wait," Philip rises, frowning. "He's letting us have our own cake?"

* * *

Camera cuts to an enraged Philip knocking on Sherlock's door sharply. An amused John follows in tow and hovers around Mrs Hudson's desk to see how Sherlock handles this tornado.

"Go away!"

Philip scrunches his face and storms in regardless, "Sherlock, I'm given to understand that you are assigning birthday cakes to everyone. I would like a brownie cake with chocolate-covered strawberries."

"Go ask Martha!" Sherlock's annoyed reply comes.

"Hang on!" A sharp voice rings out, like metal striking metal. Camera pans to show Mrs Hudson get up indignantly from her desk and hobble as fast as she can to Sherlock's office. "We already have an ice cream cake, a peach pie AND a cobbler. You wanted to do this because you wanted to cut spending—"

"I'm allergic to peach!" Philip exclaims.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office.

"I am running out of reasons not to stab Anderson with one of his engraved pens."

* * *

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, slaps his palms on his desk and rises, his voice booming loud as he steps out of his office, "Okay, that's it! Everybody out of the break room! Conference room, 5 seconds! Martha, bring all the cakes! We're doing Billy's birthday. Only."

She frowns, "Both of them?"

"Yes. I'm sick of this day! Do what you do best."

And then, pointedly looking away from John, he saunters into the conference room and swings the door shut. Camera pans to a tight-lipped, jaw-clenched John, who also looks away from the conference room in unison.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

"So we did have separate birthdays after all. What was surprising was everyone was more outraged about merging birthdays together than essentially losing their insurance."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock sitting alone in a chair at the back of the conference room, while everyone is singing 'Happy Birthday Billy', eating cake and basically mingling. Camera pans to Mrs Hudson, who has spotted Sherlock sitting alone and blows Greg off to sit with him.

"Cake?"

Sherlock looks up at her. She still has her amused look from the morning. Sherlock accepts with a tired smile, "Thank you."

She sits down next to him. "You're not the first one, by the way."

Sherlock looks at her quizzically. She chuckles, "Ed Truck, who was boss before you, tried merging birthdays too. Rookie mistake. At least you sorted it out before the end of the day. Ed practically had a rebellion on his hands for a week."

Sherlock's face breaks into chuckles as he bows his head in amused embarrassment.

"You _can_ be a good manager, Sherlock—"

"Oh, please! I'd rather die."

Mrs Hudson looks up to retort, only to spot the half-smile on Sherlock's face.

"But, to be a good manager, all you have to do is care. Care about your employees. When you take away our basic entitlements such as proper health insurance, it feels as if you don't care about even our well-being..."

"Doesn't matter, Martha," Sherlock nods vaguely, stuffing cake into his mouth. "I'm not going to be here for long."

Mrs Hudson chuckles, "That's what I said when I was your age. Funny how life always has other plans."

All humour instantly vanishes from Sherlock's face, only to be replaced by dread. He looks up towards John, who's listening to Molly's banter, and his gaze turns wistful. As if on cue, John looks up only to see Sherlock gazing at him. He attempts a tentative smile at Sherlock. Sherlock returns his smile, a shared, tender moment between them.

"It does, doesn't it?" Sherlock tears his eyes away from John, "Mrs Hudson, can I have another piece of cake?"

"No seconds until everybody's had some."

"But I'm the manager!"

"Get one yourself," she retorts. "I'm the senior supplier relations rep, dear. Not your housekeeper."

* * *

Camera cuts to John packing things up at his desk. We see Sherlock watch him as he stands in the conference room entrance, fingers fidgeting on the door frame. He steels himself and, having made a decision, toddles up to his desk, practising his smile on the way.

"So how long have you been on hold for now?" Sherlock leans forward. John turns around, mouth slightly ajar, and smiles as he recalls what Sherlock is talking about.

"Oh yeah, almost forgot. Seven hours and thirty-five minutes. When I come back tomorrow, it'll be almost twenty-four hours."

"Nice. Uh, are you—?" Sherlock drifts off. John licks his lips expectantly.

"Yeah, I am. Are you... too?"

Sherlock's lips quirk in a half-smile, "Yup. Let me just grab my things." He jogs to his office, sweeps all his stuff into his attaché and sprints out to catch up with John as he collects his jacket.

* * *

Camera cuts to John starting his car in the parking lot.

"Uh, yeah. Sherlock and I made up. He's not being an arse anymore, so..." he beams at the camera. "Oh, what did we talk about? Uhh, he just asked me what diseases I would like covered in our health plan. Y'know, a typical discussion between blokes. So I told him to send out a form to everyone so they can all anonymously list down any diseases they might want to be covered."

John breaks into a snigger.

"But I'm still a bit pissed off at him so..."

* * *

Camera cuts to a red-faced Sherlock in his office, sifting through dozens of papers, his shoulders shaking with hysterical giggles as he shakes his head. He brandishes the pages at the camera one-by-one.

"I present to you... some of the diseases people want to be covered in H&H Ferndale: SARS, Mad cow disease... oh, and this ridiculous one, KitKat fingers. Flesh-eating bacteria, government-created killer nanorobot infection, ooh, I'd want that covered... Cocoa Popus... oh, there's Pretendonitis! Ah, Anderson... Spontaneous dental-hydroplosion... that's John's writing, imaginative... Pig's nose?"

Sherlock buries his face in his hands, shaking with laughter, "Have to give it to John; he systematically put them all up to it. I'll get back at him one of these days... "


	6. Travelling Salesmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock convinces John to let him shadow him on sales calls. Back at the office, Philip discovers a previously unknown and troubling detail about Sherlock's past.

It is a quarter to nine. Camera pans to Philip Anderson, already at work on the phone, nodding and typing. Behind him, Mrs Hudson gets up from her chair, puts her glasses and a notebook into a black purse and grabs her coat. She strides up to the reception, where Molly is still settling in.

"Hi Molly, could you tell Sherlock I'll be back by lunchtime? I have a meeting with a sales rep at Hammermill."

"Okay, Mrs H," Molly smiles. "Have a nice day."

"You too, dear," she croons. She turns around to leave out the office and is greeted by the sight of an absent-minded Sherlock.

"Oh, there he is!" she exclaims as Sherlock begins to get startled by her presence as if she appeared out of thin air. "I'll just tell you. I'm going out; will be back by lunch. I have a meeting with Hammermill."

Without waiting for his reaction, she trots out of the office. Sherlock looks after her meaningfully, a little bewildered, for a long time, "Did she say _meeting_?"

Molly doesn't bother to look up from the pile of mail. "Yep."

"Well," he checks his watch, "I suppose you can call it a 'meeting' of sorts."

Smirking at the camera, he saunters away, leaving Molly to register his innuendo a while later and stare after him in an expression that is equal parts shock and disbelief.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock standing at the entrance to his office. He beckons to Molly non-verbally and slithers back into his office.

"So," he motions her into the chairs, "John and I are going out today for a meeting—"

"Oh, like Mrs Hudson?" she quips cheekily. Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"No, we're going out for a _professional_ meeting," he enunciates. "Sales calls. What I would like for you to do is have everyone work on... whatever it is they're working on right now."

"Okay. You'll be back by lunch too?"

"Molly!" Sherlock growls threateningly. "Be professional. I know this is your first job, but please."

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room.

"Ugh, I should've told him it was his first job too!" She shakes her head, "Why do clever comebacks never strike me when they need to?"

* * *

Camera cuts to the reception. John hangs his coat on the rack, wordlessly collects his mail, peering at them as he absentmindedly sets his bag down at his desk. Philip scrutinises him from top to bottom, until John realises he's being stared at. He puts his mail down and raises an eyebrow questioningly, putting his hands on his hips.

Philip rolls his eyes and goes back to his work. A long-suffering John looks at the camera suspiciously, narrowing his eyes, before going back to his work.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room, pouting with indignation.

"Guess who's pulling himself up by the Holmes' coat-tails to the top. But you know what? I refuse to be the suck-up! I'm an honest, hardworking man who seeks only the truth. And my exemplary record speaks for itself! They didn't call me 'The Stickler' in Sixth Form for nothing... What?... John's obviously straight! What's that got to do with what I'm saying?!"

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Wow, word gets around, doesn't it? Yes, Sherlock and I are going on sales calls today. Four potentially new clients, total, with lunch in between. Busy day."

John chuckles, "Well, busy day for me, mostly. Sherlock just wants to tag along and pose as my "junior sales associate". He said he wants to understand his job better, which is really... unlike him, but I get it. And I'm looking forward to "hanging out" with him, as the millennials say. I've never gone out with him, even for a drink so..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, as excited as a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

"Oh, John believed that?" he chuckles. "He's so simple. No, I have no interest in this job. It has routine, which I abhor: Molly greets everyone with the same welcome phrase, Anderson and Donovan keep giving each other sly looks, and Mrs Hudson says the same twelve things whenever it rains."

As if on cue, the reception phone rings and Molly answers it with her typical, "Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly." Sherlock rolls his eyes. It's nine-thirty, and he's already heard the phrase for the twelfth time.

"The data is too repetitive here. I've been here for a month. I keep seeing the same people, the same colours, the same clothes, the same habits, the same data and sometimes, I see them at home, and I can't tell if they're real or not and it," he grabs his head, burying it in his palms and tugging at his hair, "drives me insane!"

Sherlock heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"So when John mentioned he was going out for sales calls, I told him I wanted to come along. He seemed surprised, almost flattered that I was choosing to spend time with him. Don't know why; John is interesting, much more than half the people working here. A young man who threw away a nice uni degree and a comfortable life to fight a war in the heat and the dirt and the blood? Intriguing."

Sherlock has the strangest smile on as if he's finally found a puzzle he can't solve.

"And I don't find normal people intriguing. So, I'm going to try and crack him, see what happens."

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock in John's car, a modest grey Ford Fiesta. Sherlock ties the seat belt around him in the passenger seat, his face contorting to restrain his eagerness. John glances at the camera through the dashboard mirror and starts the car. Despite the engine sound, a thick silence hangs in the car as John pulls out of the parking, each waiting for the other to speak first. Sherlock pretends to rummage through some papers.

"Got a gun in there?" Sherlock inquires, tapping two fingers on the glove box. John chuckles with an unmistakable hint of delight in it.

"Yeah," he looks at Sherlock in amazement. "How did you know?"

Sherlock smirks, "You were in the army; you have to have a service pistol. A defensive man like you has to have a gun on you most times. But if it's not in your pocket, it still has to be accessible."

"Come on! You just guessed that."

"I never guess."

"I bet you looked into my personnel files or talked to Molly... and then you looked at me for clues... or something."

As if in retaliation for John's scepticism, Sherlock opens the glove box, retracting the gun. John's curiosity and playful mood rapidly transmute into alarm.

"Hey, uh... Sherlock? Keep it down, please? We're in a neighbourhood. Someone might call the police—"

"I completely understand America's obsession with guns," he cocks it, completely disregarding John trying to divide his time between looking ahead and looking down at Sherlock who now is threading a finger into the trigger. "Holding life or death in the palm of one's hand. One slip and you're dead."

John looks at the camera through the dashboard mirror, panic written in his eyes. We can see him contemplating whether to pull over and break Sherlock's hand or call emergency services.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm driving, so please put the safety on."

"It's already on," Sherlock twists his wrists, "oh wait, it's on now."

"Good to know," John murmurs shakily under his breath.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the parking lot of a law firm. Behind him, Sherlock is rolling his eyes at the firm's flag.

"If I make it out alive today, I'll consider it a success."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally Donovan fixing herself a coffee in the break room. Philip Anderson enters the room and Sally barely glances at him, but clears her throat as if to say that he's got her attention. He busies himself with the water cooler, turning his back to her.

"I need your help," she whispers into the coffee machine without looking up at him.

"Anything, monkey."

"I have to plan Martha's thirtieth-anniversary party, and it needs to be themed. Do you know something fun about her?"

"She got arrested for drunk driving in 2004. Does that count?"

Sally's face screws up, "No! I said fun, not illegal."

"Why don't you just ask her?"

"That's not the way these things go, Philip! It ruins the surprise. Can you... look into the personal files and tell me something about her that could also be fun?"

Philip sips from his paper cup full of water, "Consider it done by the end of the day."

"Okay," a beat, then Sally whispers, "I love you."

With a scanning gaze to his left and right, he saunters out of the break room, grinning triumphantly. Sally glances after him surreptitiously, a shy smile growing on her lips.

* * *

Camera cuts to a couple of glass doors, with a tasteful logo of _"Sullivan & Weismann Legal Co"_. Oak cabinets, pale yellow walls, lamps with green shades and a receptionist, a suave twenty-something man with a Bluetooth headset adds to the old-school charm. We pan to see Sherlock and John sitting on a brown leather sofa. The awkwardness hangs heavy in the air as neither looks at one another.

Sherlock is motionless, languid figure draped over the sofa, silently observing his surroundings. John, on the other hand, is a ball of anxiety; eyes wide, wrinkled forehead, hunched over his knees, chin supported by white knuckles. He glances at Sherlock, letting out an exhale at last.

"So, basically, I go in, do some small talk about anything I see in the room: let's say the bloke inside has got a picture of his two kids. I go ahead and talk about my seven-year-old nephews.”

"Boring, boring, wait,” Sherlock frowns in confusion, “Nephews? I thought you had only one nephew."

John is taken aback. "H-how...? Yes, but _he_ doesn't know. But now we have something in common to talk about."

"So?"

"So?" John chuckles, licking his lower lip, "So, if he likes me, he's more likely to buy paper from me. Remember, H&H is a small company that can’t compete with the nationwide discount suppliers in terms of price, so the paper isn’t as much a product as customer service. Keep that in your customer’s minds and they’ll like you.”

"Is that _really_ what people do? Make what should be a decision based on rational thinking and carefully laid-out pros and cons on the basis on who they like at the moment?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That is what people do."

"So fickle," Sherlock huffs. "What if he finds a salesman tomorrow he "likes" better than you?"

John narrows his eyes, "Let's hope he doesn't? Anyway, one more point. Don't ever tell them you're related to the founders if they ask, because they most certainly will. Or that your brother is the CEO. Always say it's a 'happy coincidence'."

Sherlock frowns, "Why?"

"They will clam up like that," he snaps his fingers together. "You've _got_ to meet people on their level before you can strike any deals with them, or they're not going to like you. Just... pretend to take an interest in their lives and their problems and use that to tailor your sales pitch. Make a sale like you’d... make a friend."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow, making John snort.

“I know it’s difficult for you. And for me. But it’s the job. And when we finish with the sale, you can recount each embarrassing secret you were able to deduce about the client.”

"Mr Watson," the receptionist calls out. "Joel will see you now."

"Ugh. Making friends," Sherlock exhales, rising to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket. "So pedestrian. You should let me introduce you. I'm better at reading people than you are."

"That you are, Sherlock," John smirks as he slings his bag across his shoulder, his tone sarcastic. "That you are."

* * *

Camera cuts to an ornate office: oak desk and cabinets, a small chandelier, bookshelves stacked with law books, creamy white wall decorated with degrees, certificates, class photographs, photographs while rowing, golf, horseback riding, the whole nine yards. There's a couple of miniature ships inside bottles and decorative pottery inside a glass display case.

Joel Weismann, John's client, a forty-something pasty-faced man in bifocals with a developing bald patch dressed in a green jumper under a chestnut corduroy suit stares silently at the cameras. John notes that and clears his throat.

"I hope you don't mind the cameras, Mr Weismann. They are making a documentary on Holmes & Holmes, so they tag along wherever we go."

Mr Weismann giggles, excitement palpable on his face as he keeps doing takes at the camera, "Oh, no, no. I love it! I've always wanted to be in films. Or even a documentary."

We pan to Sherlock's face. It's all a little too Edwardian for him. He half-rises from the chair, "Sherlock Holmes, Mr Weismann."

"Oh, hello, nice to meet you," he shakes Sherlock's hand pleasantly. "You're related to the company founders, then?"

"No, just a happy coincidence," Sherlock chuckles. "Now, I see your grandmother passed away a couple of weeks ago. Hopefully, the funeral was good?"

John frowns. Mr Weismann's smile withers away slightly.

"W-What?"

"Yeah. She also had Alzheimer’s, didn’t she?” Sherlock frowns at Mr Weismann, before the penny drops, “Ah. You didn’t know. Never visited her in the nursing home, I see.”

“What is he talking about?!” Mr Weismann demands, lips trembling and eyes peering at Sherlock as if he were an overgrown insect.

“I’m sorry, Mr Weismann,” John clears his throat, taken aback at the developments, “Probably just call her? My colleague is usually right about these things.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip as he notices Greg leave his desk. Coast clear. He gets up from his seat, eyes darting from one side to another as he makes his way over to Greg's desk and pretends to be looking for something so as not to attract any attention.

He wedges himself between the desk and the grey filing cabinets, keeping an eye out while he opens drawer after drawer with care till he finds what he needs: A pink binder labelled 'Personnel Files'. There's another label below it that says 'Confidential'.

He flicks through the manila folders till he reaches the one labelled 'Hudson, Martha'. An incredulous look spreads on his face as he reads through it and looks up at the camera to whisper, "Twice?" Keeps looking, sniggering to himself, and places the folder back. And then something strikes him.

He goes back to the binder and flicks through until he finds a folder labelled 'Holmes, Sherlock'. He gulps, adjusting his glasses, as his eyes widen upon reading it.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room, knuckles white, nostrils flared.

"I have with me here the personal and confidential file of Sherlock Holmes. Allow me to share."

He flips through the pages, "Sherlock Holmes spent ages nine to eleven in Brooks Young Offenders Institution for arson. Ages seventeen to eighteen in Mount Carmel Addiction Treatment Center. At age twenty-five, he was charged with the possession of illegal amounts of cocaine and heroin, but instead of going to prison, verdict was 'time served' and was sent to The Priory. Basically, a hospital for junkies."

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock marching out of 'Sullivan & Weismann'. John looks slightly relieved, and Sherlock's face is stony as always. They trot purposefully out of the offices back to John's car. John is panting while Sherlock keeps stealing glances of him. Pursing his lips, Sherlock begins.

"So that was...?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

"But you somehow made the sale."

"We did, yeah. Joel’s partner was gracious enough. Seriously though, Alzheimer’s?"

"You don't approve?"

"Well, it’s just...” John massages his eyes and chuckles lightly, shaking his head, “maybe don’t break the news of a family member’s death in front of them during a sales pitch?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but when he spots John’s impish smirk, his defensive manner wilts away into an equally amused smile.

* * *

Camera cuts to John sitting on a park bench, a men's restroom behind him.

"My sale experience with Sherlock? Just as I had expected. He is incredibly inappropriate,” John chuckles, as if Sherlock’s lack of filter is a thing of delight, “I don’t know, it might make others angry, but it makes me laugh so... I suppose the mistake was telling Sherlock to make a sale the way he’d make a friend. Because that’s how Sherlock makes friends, I think. By telling people their grandmum’s dead.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a chuckling Sherlock. John is parking his car in a tight space in the background.

"My first sale experience with John? Just as I had expected. He nailed the sale despite my disastrous deduction, so he's an exceptionally competent salesman. Confident. An expert at pretending to be folksy; almost passes for normal, even friendly... Oh, you don't see it? Of course, you don't. Look at him, _really_ look at him."

Behind Sherlock, we see John inspect a scratch on his car. It's not a huge one, but it seems to make him mad enough to give his tyre a frustrated kick before his eyes dart around to see if anyone's seen him act that way.

“Do you ever think 'ex-solider' when you look at him? People aren't usually this relaxed around war veterans; death and guns freak them out. But look at him," he points in John's direction just as John inhales deeply to control his temper, "He laughs at what would make most people angry, but he gets angry at what most people would shrug. By average standards, he’s dysfunctional. And yet, no one sees it; nobody looks twice at him. He's that good.”

Behind Sherlock, John emits another guttural groan before deciding he's had enough.

"He gets angry about the littlest things," Sherlock presses his lips together, trying to restrain the silly smile threatening to break through on his face, “Like a grumpy garden gnome."

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock sitting inside a quaint Italian restaurant on a small circular table. It's lunchtime on a quiet Thursday afternoon. John is scrutinising Sherlock's face as the latter flips through the menu, eyes darting over the options. The waitress stands there with a polite smile pasted over her lips, patiently waiting for them to finish ordering.

"So," she leans in towards John, "busy people, are ya?"

Sherlock sniffs the menu. John frowns, "Excuse me?"

She laughs a nervous laugh, "Oh, no, don't worry! I see a lot of couples doing workday lunch dates. It's the trend now, innit? For people who're too busy for a romantic, weekend dinner?"

John backtracks at once, "Oh, no, no, this isn't a date! He's actually my boss."

She frowns, "Boss? I thought I heard you say to him that you've got the bill."

John chuckles uncomfortably, waving his hand at her, "That's because I'm getting the per diem for today. Because... I'm the salesman doing the sales calls—"

"It's very romantic when men pay the bill instead of telling you they've left their wallet in their car," her tone turns bitter.

"It's not a date!" John insists vehemently. "Sherlock, say something!"

Sherlock cocks his head up and hands her the menu, "I don't want anything with cheese or gluten, thank you. I don't understand what you've been passing off as "cheese" to your customers!"

"Yeah okay, but what do you want to order?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, "I just told you!"

"Yeah, give us a minute," John snatches the menu away from her, petulant lips pursed and brows all furrowed.

"Yeah, I'll give you guys a minute," she winks at him suggestively and struts off, and John has to resist the urge to bang the table with his fist.

"It's not a date!" He calls after her a little too loudly and turns back to Sherlock, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It really matters to you, doesn't it?" Sherlock steeples his fingers and watches John inquisitively. "What people think of you?"

"Well, it should matter, shouldn't it? Otherwise one can go around doing pretty stupid things."

"Technically, the human race has been known to attach emotional significance to validation from peers because it serves a greater evolutionary purpose," Sherlock deadpans. "The more common the person, the bigger his group. And the bigger the group, the better his chances of survival."

John looks insulted and amused at the same time, "Got the homo sapiens all figured out, have ya? Well, I suppose I'll have the salmon, now that I know their cheese is not cheese. What about you?"

"Your pick."

"Uh," John goes back to the menu, analysing his options, "maybe this vegan spaghetti?"

"Fine."

John smiles and turns to look for the nosy waitress. We can see Sherlock scrutinising John intensely.

"So," he turns back to Sherlock, who is still staring at him blankly, a faraway, lacklustre look in his eyes, "we've got an hour or so before our next meeting: Dunmore High."

Sherlock utters a deep purr at that.

"So, I was thinking, I don't know, we could hang 'round," John licks his lips self-consciously, rapidly running out of things to say when the waitress returns, now chewing on gum.

"You guys ready?"

"Um, yes... the salmon for me, and this... uh, vegan spaghetti with marinara sauce for him."

"Okie-doke. Can I suggest a white pinot noir to go along? It'll bring out the flavours in your fish and—"

"No, thank you," John chuckles uncomfortably. "We're in the middle of a workday."

"Sure, sure. So you say," the waitress' lips twitch in a quick, saucy smirk.

"No, John, let's get the wine."

"But—"

"As your boss, I'm okaying it. My treat. Sarah," Sherlock glances at her name tag and smiles charmingly, "we'll take a bottle of pinot noir, as per your excellent suggestion."

"A bottle?!" John looks at him helplessly, but the waitress cuts him off.

"Okay, and what about you? I'll suggest a red with your pasta. Maybe a Merlot?"

John cuts in before Sherlock can refuse, "One glass, max. I have a feeling he's a lightweight."

"Okay, I'll be back with your orders. Have fun, you two!"

"It's not a date!" John calls after her helplessly at her insinuation but to no avail.

"Ten quid."

John turns to Sherlock, "What?"

"I'll bet you ten quid."

John's eyes narrow, "Did I say it out loud?"

"No, but I could hear you think it."

John smiles interestedly, propping his chin on his knuckles, "Okay, I'll bet. Go ahead."

"She is excited about you and me as a couple because her gay brother's just come out, in the face of much parental disapproval."

"You're just making that up!" John protests, but Sherlock ignores him.

"She has a dog, larger than a terrier, but smaller than a mastiff. The scruff marks on her shoes tell me that. She is dating someone here, or more like trying to date someone here who fancied her once but has now moved on, going by the way she tugs unconsciously at her necklace whenever she implies we have a romantic relationship."

He mercilessly ignores John's blush at Sherlock's careless remark as he stretches his neck towards the kitchen. We follow his line of sight as she hands over their order to the chef, then shoots a charming smile towards the busboy inside. John turns around to verify Sherlock's inferences.

"The busboy?"

Sherlock peers at her. "Nope. It's the manager. Her eyes went wide; she stopped chewing like a man when she saw him. Never mind the gay brother. Wait till her parents hear about the manager with the wife and kids."

John lets out a delighted chuckle. "How?"

"Ring, blonde hair and drool marks on thighs and shoulders. Toddler and a baby! Next!"

"Hey, hey slow down, Schumacher! We had a bet. Let's wait for the waitress come over and then we'll talk."

Without thinking, John reaches across the table and squeezes Sherlock's hand before he realises what he's doing. Sherlock turns pink at that.

"Waiting. So boring."

"Don't worry. I'll try and do you."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock's lips quirk up in a cheeky smirk. "Go ahead, soldier. I'm all yours. Do me."

John locks eyes with him for a moment, a hint of a pink tongue running the inside of his lower lips as he grins conspiratorially at Sherlock, Sherlock whose fingers are steepled, a naughty twinkle in his eyes.

"You're just pretending," Sherlock finally mutters after a long time. John breaks down into giggles.

"No, no, I'm there," he slaps Sherlock on the wrist and steeples his finger together like him and deepening his voice, speaking in a lofty Sherlockesque accent, _"I can see from your acid-stained fingers that you've studied chemistry._"

Sherlock chuckles at the terrible mimicry, "Not a bad start. Is that supposed to be me, though?"

A pleasantly surprised smile grows on John's lip, "Wait."

"What?"

"You studied chemistry?"

"Yes. I have a Bachelors in Chemistry."

"Better than me," John's expression turns wistful, all humour gone. "I don't even have a degree... You're right; I dropped out of medical school... Seriously, though Sherlock, what are we doing here, selling _paper_ of all things?" He exhales, burying his face in his palms. "You could have been something else, something better, and I could've been something better... What _are_ we doing at H&H?"

Sherlock peers at John with unexpected sympathy, touched by his earnestness, "Having fun."

John glances at him with a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Sherlock scrambles to restore their breezy camaraderie.

"If it's any consolation, nobody thought I'd amount to much either."

That cheers John up a bit, "They were right, of course."

"Yes, they were," Sherlock admits with a chuckle, and John's smile fades a little, unsure if Sherlock really means it or if he's simply going along with John's sarcasm.

* * *

Camera cuts the H&H warehouse, located at the back of the Ferndale Business Park building. Philip is waiting impatiently behind shelves stocked with boxes of paper, tapping his foot, eyes darting left to right, glasses tucked away in his breast pocket. Sally tiptoes up to him and taps on his shoulder.

"So," she begins, "what did you find about Martha?"

"Forget her. I found something real."

She rolls her eyes, "Pip, you know I'm on a deadline. I have to plan her party—" But Philip presses a finger to her lips, shutting her up. He opens a folder, containing photocopies of Sherlock's personnel file. Sally frowns.

"Look here, monkey," he points at the highlighted paragraph, and Sally's eyes go wide.

"A junkie?!" She all but screeches, outraged. Philip looks alarmed. "We are being managed by a fucking junkie?!"

"And an arsonist. But that was when he was nine—"

"God, Philip! Our branch is on the verge of redundancy, and our manager is a junkie arsonist? How could they _do_ this to all of us?"

Philip begins to backpedal, "To be honest, drug addiction is much more complex than—"

She glares at him, mouth hung open at his rambling, "You don't get this, do you? We need a strong leader with a clear head. We could be seeing worldwide recession in the next year or so, Philip, and only a strong leader can sail us through times like these!" she cradles his face as if to calm herself from hyperventilating. "We could all lose our jobs, our savings, everything! This is the last straw."

"Monkey, it's okay—"

"Don't _monkey_ me!" She demands angrily. "We have to do something about it! _You_ have to do something about it! We can't have a drug-addled man-child as manager."

"Well, it does say he's been clean for the last two years—"

"Philip, we have to talk to Irene! She needs to see that you should be the manager. You've been here the longest."

"Technically, Martha's been here the longest—"

"They'll never make her manager. She's retiring in a couple of years," she dismisses him with a flick of her wrist. "It has to be you, because, let's face it, they're never going to make _me_ the manager."

There's a bitter edge to her tone. Philip notices it but doesn't say anything.

"You have to call Irene, Philip. It's her decision. Not even Mycroft can steamroll over her all the time."

Sally buries her head in his chest, hugging him tightly. She doesn't notice the distressed look on his face as his arms wrap around her torso, a reassuring palm stroking the back of her head calmly.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally Donovan in the conference room.

"I am so sick of this culture of nepotism at H&H! There's only one dynasty I approve of, and that is the House of Windsor."

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson in the conference room, a distressed frown furrowing his brow.

"I mean, Sherlock has to go, right?" The tone of his voice is almost unsure. "He's a major dick and has never held a job before, forget managerial experience. . . What? No, I do _not_ feel sorry for Sherlock Holmes!" An aggressive edge creeps into his voice as he snaps at the camera, raising his voice slightly. "What makes you think so? I just want to clarify that I, Philip Anderson, have never felt, or will feel, sorry for twats like him. I am a merciless man, and I will do what needs to be done!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock and John in the restaurant.

"Here's your salmon," their waitress finally arrives, "and a vegan spaghetti in marinara sauce for your date. Have fun."

John doesn't even bother to correct her. Sherlock, noticing the absence of John's usual priggishness, calls her back, "Hey, uh... Sarah, is it? Can you settle a bet?"

"Um, sure."

"Ask her," Sherlock eggs him on. John's usual friendly self returns, if not wholly.

"Do you have a dog?" John asks gloomily. Sherlock takes over in an attempt to cheer John up.

"Larger than a terrier, smaller than a mastiff?"

Sarah's eyes narrow, "Uh, yeah, a golden retriever... How d'you know?"

Sherlock smirks, chest puffed with pride, "You've also got a gay brother who's just recently come out of the closet in the face of extremely conservative parents. And you once dated the manager. You like 'em old, don't ya? But did you know he's been married for four years with a toddler and a six-month-old baby?"

All sadness having transformed into embarrassment, John tucks his head into his chest, muttering, "There he is." Sarah-the-waitress gapes at him, horrified, and hurries away. We see Sherlock staring after her retreating back, a genuinely puzzled expression on his face.

"Well, I was going to get dessert," John clears his throat, cutting into his fish. "Too much risk now."

Sherlock frowns, "Why? I gave her good reason never to go back to that man again. She should thank me."

"Hmm, you're right," John's voice has a sarcastic edge to it. "Go ahead, order the dessert."

Sherlock looks doubtfully at the camera, shrugging.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock and John stumbling out of the restaurant, John's arm slung over his shoulder, his arm supporting John's torso. John lurches forward a little and Sherlock grabs him by the shoulder to keep him stable. John's expression can be mistaken for blissful had it not been evident that he is hugely plastered. Sherlock is a little inebriated too, but he manages himself better.

"I only had two glasses," Sherlock slurs a bit, sniggering into the back of his hand at random intervals. "John drank the whole bottle. This is not... not... this is not how I imagined my plan to go."

"Are you talking about me?" John frowns and, squinting up at his manager, suddenly spots the camera with a delighted expression, pointing at it. "Hey, Sherlock... we're getting filmed!"

"Yes, John," Sherlock retorts, "we are. Don't state the..." he trails off, struggling to remember the word.

"Prepicious?" John offers unhelpfully.

"Not a real word, John. Sorry," he peers at the camera, grimacing and flapping his hand about, "he's being dumb on purpose. Can you drive us? John is drunk and I... oh, you're not allowed to?" Sherlock frowns, "It's in your contract to not... to not interact with us... contract... contract, funny word... Obvious! That was the word! John!" He snaps his fingers triumphantly and shakes John's shoulder violently, causing his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder to slide off, "don't state the _obvious!"_

"Can you... imagine," John begins to giggle and Sherlock joins in, "all the poor sods stuck at the office today?"

"Wait, John, I'll call us a taxi!" Sherlock toddles towards the street, throwing an arm up to whoever would care. John grabs his other arm, shaking it vigorously.

"You know what we should do? We should... call the office!"

"Call Molly, yes! Good idea, best idea ever!" Sherlock starts giggling, as a taxi pulls up to them. John throws open the door and stumbles in, followed by Sherlock, who winks and shoots finger guns at the camera before being driven away.

"Laterz!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly Hooper chatting with Greg at the reception while the latter waits for his print job. The phone beside Molly rings loudly, startling them out of their conversation. She inhales sharply and picks up the receiver, "Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly..."

We can see from her face that she is not able to make out parts of the conversation. She frowns and looks up at Greg in confusion, narrowing her eyes. Greg motions to her to give him the speaker.

"Yes, hello?" He demands, a little louder in an attempt to intimidate the person on the other side. Molly leans it to listen and whispers, "Is that John?"

There's some shrieking from the handset, followed by some giggling. A very telltale baritone mumbles something, and the line gets disconnected. Greg gapes at Molly, apparently rendered mute with surprise.

"Sounded like Sherlock to me," he mutters after a long time. "He sounded drunk."

* * *

Camera cuts to a black taxi speeding ahead, seen through the windscreen of the camera crew car as we follow the former. We zoom in to see through the rear screen a dark-haired tousled head leaning against a smaller, neater blond head. There's a slap to the latter man's head, causing their taxi to pull up, tail lights flashing. We see Sherlock and John stumble out, getting queer looks from other people on the pavement. We get out of our car to follow the duo as John staggers to a nearby bench and collapses into it. Sherlock appears dazed, struggling to maintain his balance and squinting at the sudden burst of sunlight.

"I don't like this," Sherlock frowns, shaking his head as he tries to sit down on the bench too, "Oh, you chaps... followed. John, look... the camerasss are here."

"Sssshhut it," John groans. "I want to go home."

"I don't like this. Did I... did I tell you... that I don't like this?"

John creaks one eye open, "Ugh, we forgot the bill. I... I have to go back... tomorrow."

"What?"

"For reimburse... reimburse... to Accounting. Per diem, ss... something."

"Did I ever... did I ever tell you this?" Sherlock suddenly turns to face John, grabbing John's shoulder to steady himself. John smiles a bit, which turns into a frown as a fresh bout of pain seems to invade his head.

"What? Tell me..."

"Sssally," Sherlock slurs, "from Accounting..."

John begins to snicker as Sherlock waves an unsteady finger at his face, "Ssssally..."

With that, he dozes off, his head lightly hitting John's shoulder and sliding off to hit the edge of the backrest.

"Oh, fuck!" John swears under his breath, drunken panic hitting him as he throws himself at Sherlock, graceless fingers travelling along the hem of his coat till he reaches the pockets, trailing over a very telltale bulge. John inserts his hand clumsily and takes out Sherlock's phone.

"Look at that!" he waves it in front of the camera. "Sherlock still has a flip... phone. Tee-hee!" He presses down on '1' and the camera zooms on the tiny monochromatic screen. It reads_"Calling Mycroft"_...

Having accomplished the final mission, John snoozes off next to Sherlock on the bench, a happy smile on his face.


	7. Volunteering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers that Greg has begun volunteering and develops an obsession, resisting Molly's best efforts to make him do some work. John makes a date.

Camera cuts to Sherlock seated in his office, his narrow, iridescent eyes locked in a staring contest with Mycroft who absentmindedly plays with a paperweight. The dim lights and the drawn Venetian blinds conspire together to hatch shadows under Sherlock’s cheekbones, flickering and faltering and blending into the unusually dark circles under his eyes.

Despite the alertness in the eyes, there’s a distinct shabbiness to Sherlock’s features today: the collar of his shirt isn’t proper and he’s missing his watch. He occasionally massages his forehead, propping it up on his knuckles, closing and opening his eyes in irritation at times.

“I do not like coming down here in Ferndale, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally sighs after a long period of silence. “I find it rather... beastly.”

“Why?” Sherlock winces slightly, and bows his head, putting it down on his desk. “Because of your ‘slaves’?”

“Legwork, brother mine. This is why I have Irene to take care of the things on the... _ground,”_ Mycroft utters ‘ground’ with distaste. “I am not the kind of person who goes from door to door to seek status updates. I’m the kind that sits in the top floor of a decommissioned lighthouse, alone, away from all the noise and people. Have you ever seen _me_ talk to Irene about anything other than business at our parties? Never.”

“And yet, here you are. On the ground. Again. Was your lighthouse under repair, by any chance?”

“I’m always there after your ‘episodes’. Remember?”

“Is _that_ why you woke me up at five in the morning today?”

“Even a CEO can take half-a-day once a while to see his little brother in the throes of a hangover. And when he does, he makes the most of it.”

“Stop referring to yourself in the third person!” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft chuckles.

“Try and stop me.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, frowning but still hungover.

“You want to talk about my relationship with Mycroft? I don’t understand the question. Now get out of my office and answer your brother’s fifteen unanswered calls as you ponder over the hypocrisy of your own question.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and Mycroft in Sherlock’s office. Mycroft’s eyes are grave.

“Bringing you here was a mistake.”

“Oh good, we finally agree.”

“I should have kept you in headquarters instead. Here, you are under the mistaken impression that you are above everybody else. Over at headquarters, you’d have me and Irene restrain your… _idiosyncrasies_.” Mycroft grimaces distastefully.

Sherlock nearly chokes on his hangover-alleviating coffee. “Irene? That forever-texting, order-barking henchman of yours? _Sure!”_

Mycroft smirks calmly. “How power has gone to your head.”

“Power?” Sherlock scoffs, “Oh, you mean playing with ordinary peoples’ livelihoods while you and Irene bark down your orders and leave it to me to fight it out?”

“In nicks and cuts is how I endeavour to teach you tact, dear brother,” Mycroft grasps the handle of his umbrella, drumming his fingers deliberately on it. “Since it is your personal crusade to blurt out uncomfortable truths—”

But Sherlock, in a fit of manic energy, vaults himself over his desk, landing expertly on his feet next to a seated, startled Mycroft. He runs out of his office and towards a bemused Greg Lestrade, who was previously chatting with Molly Hooper. Sherlock’s mouth is hung open, the very picture of excited astonishment.

“There’s something odd about you.”

A long-suffering Mycroft trudges out after Sherlock, looking at the camera as if to say _see what I mean about tact_.

Greg leans away from Sherlock against the reception podium uneasily as the rest of the office catches note, “Don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve recently begun doing something.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft growls warningly, but Sherlock holds up a restraining hand to his brother.

“You’re looking forward to something tomorrow, that inner pocket of your jacket, you keep touching something there. You were about to show it to Molly in an inane attempt to impress her into going out with you, in which case... go ahead.”

An embarrassed Molly’s eyes widen, doing rapid takes, from an excited, maniacally grinning Sherlock, to an offended, unamused Greg and an extremely uncomfortable Mycroft who looks like he’s running simulations in his mind on how best to distract the office from Sherlock’s shenanigans.

“Uh, no, thank you.” Greg starts walking away back to his desk.

Sherlock frowns, “Why not?”

Greg keeps walking away and away, and Mycroft creeps up behind Sherlock, placing a placating hand on his shoulder which Sherlock shakes off petulantly.

“When I say you have to learn how to interact with other people, _this_ is what I mean.”

“Piss off, Mycroft!” Sherlock strides away after Greg, prompting a sigh from Mycroft. Finally, he realises it’s time for him to leave, so he makes his way towards a harassed Molly.

Molly sits up straight immediately. “Hey, Mycroft—”

“I’m well, Molly, thank you for asking. Apologies for that, my brother can be rather...” he stretches his lips in an insincere smile as he pulls out a folder. “Anyway, here’s a piece of paper. Make several dozen copies of this and keep a log of everything Sherlock does in them.”

Molly gapes at the camera, somewhat alarmed. “I—”

“The slots provided in this piece of paper are hourly. But you can show us some initiative and take note every fifteen minutes, can’t you, Molly?”

“But—”

“Your cooperation is appreciated. Make sure you fax it over to me every day at five pm. John?”

A hungover John stirs in his desk at Mycroft’s voice, squinting, “Uh, yes?”

“Walk with me.”

Without waiting for John to follow, Mycroft promptly walks out the main door. John stands up gingerly as Molly looks at him with dread in her eyes. John returns a half-placating look before hobbling out the door.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“Uh, you want me to repeat what happened yesterday...? I suppose I can. Apparently, I drunk dialled Mycroft from Sherlock’s phone, and someone told him where we were... oh, it was you two? Thanks, guys. Way to save face in front of Sherlock’s brother... wonderful,” John smile is devoid of amusement.

“There was some difficulty separating us, apparently. There was some shouting that I don’t remember. Mycroft then drove me to my flat, left me at the doorstep... out in the rain,” at this point, John cringes, grimacing. “And then, I suppose, he took Sherlock away. And now I have two voicemails, each from the sales calls we missed, so... oh, and I have to go back to that restaurant to get the receipt for our lunch yesterday. Sally has asked me about it at least twice.”

He buries his face in his palms, “On top of that, I’ve got a killer headache and Philip _might_ just manage to drive me insane today, so...”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Mycroft in the parking lot of the Ferndale Business Park.

“I’m so sorry for yesterday, Mycroft,” John tucks his head into his chest to avoid the bright glare from the sun. “It was extremely unprofessional of me so, I’ve rescheduled the missed meetings to Monday. I think we should be good—”

“You do realise, John,” Mycroft’s smile is polite. So polite, it doesn’t reach his cold eyes, “that I haven’t called you down so I can hear you grovel.”

John’s eyes narrow. While he’s never had much of one-to-one interactions with Mycroft, his manner is certainly unexpected. Till date, Mycroft has always been someone who tries his best to do a Father Christmas routine and fails horribly. This—bloodshot eyes, downturned lips, growling voice, cold fury emanating from his features—is not the Mycroft he’s familiar with.

“I will be honest with you. You _appear_ somewhat intelligent, so I’m sure you’ve realised by now that this is my brother’s first job.”

John doesn’t move or react.

“And I’m sure you’re aware the only reason Sherlock is here is because he’s expected to follow in my footsteps. In the event he doesn’t crash and burn, he will be out of this branch in another two years. Therefore, I must ask you, for your own sake and for the sake of the future of this company, the company _you_ work in, not to make too much out of whatever friendship you think you may have established with my brother.”

John crosses his arms defensively, looking his boss’ boss’ boss in the eye for a few moments before turning away, laughing tightly, “You’re optimistic.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sherlock is never going to work in any kind of office for a long time.”

Mycroft examines John intensely, his lack of apprehension, at his insubordination, making no attempt at justifying himself. He knows John is right, but won’t give him the satisfaction for being so.

“I see you have gone farther along than I expected. Very well. Two more years. Keep a distance from my brother, and when he advances to corporate, you can have his job. With your lack of a university degree and only three years in the company, I imagine that’ll be a huge promotion over your other peers.”

That catches John unawares. “How do you—?”

“Know you dropped out of your degree after four years in uni? Have a grand total of three years of work experience in H&H? Served in Afghanistan and were incapacitated when you got shot in your left shoulder? I really hoped you’d give my intelligence a little more credit.”

John tucks his hands behind his back, “Did Sherlock tell you?”

Mycroft snorts, “Please, John. My brother and I have better things to discuss than _lower-level company people_. I hope you’ll give this more thought. Try not to make your ‘friendship’ with Sherlock Holmes into anything more than a distraction.”

With that, Mycroft struts out the building into the open parking lot, leaving behind a conflicted John. He collapses into the sofa in the lobby in a heap of skin and bones, mouth open and eyes drooped in dismay, as if replaying the conversation over and over in his mind till all parts start to sink in, forming the full picture.

At last, he glances at the camera and his figure sways a little, unsteady. Clamps down on his wrist and mouths ‘two years’.

* * *

Camera cuts to John trudging in through the main door of the branch. We see Sherlock rush towards him, possibly at the sound of his steps, “John!” He grabs John by the shoulders, making him groan.

“Hey, ow, what the—?”

“What did Mycroft want?” Sherlock fixes him with a piercing gaze, his voice almost afraid. John frowns at the bright fluorescent light behind his head.

“I—I don’t know, I just—“

Sherlock all but pushes him into the grey sofa in the H&H lobby, “Here, John, sit down! Now repeat word to word what my brother said.”

John closes his eyes and props his forehead on his knuckles, “Sherlock, let’s not—not here, alright? People will talk.”

Sherlock scowls, “About what?”

“About... you playing favourites!” John blurts the first thing he can come up with and groans, catching his temporary lapse in temper. “M’sorry. Still hungover.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I really am hungover, Sherlock—”

“I _know._ I’m not talking about that.”

John starts to get up, all the while scanning the office for anyone who might be watching them, “Gotta get back to work.”

As John begins to trod away, Molly marches towards Sherlock with scant, colourful paperwork, “Hey, I’ve got some purchase orders that need your approval—”

“Not now, Molly!”

“But it’s essential that you be productive today,” she protests weakly.

“Molly!” Sherlock growls. “I said, not now.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room.

“It’s bizarre. I get that Sherlock and Mycroft aren’t exactly Sam and Dean Winchester, but why do I have to bear the brunt of their sibling rivalry?”

She reads off Sherlock’s work log that Mycroft gave her, “Nine to nine-thirty: meeting with Mycroft. Nine-thirty to quarter to ten: sneaked past Greg’s desk multiple times. Quarter to ten to ten o’clock: had a fight with John in the lobby.”

Something strikes her and she scribbles out the last written line. Camera zooms to the page to read: _Promised to sign purchase orders_.

“There,” she shrugs. “At least now Sherlock knows there’s some work that needs to be done.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a livid Sherlock in his office.

“Mycroft’s ignoring my texts AND calls. I have five ideas on what he might have said to John, but I need to know exactly what so I can set this right. So, there’s nothing I can do about that... Onto the next puzzle: the HR rep... I pegged him for the most boring person in the office, and how wrong I was,” his mood improves dramatically. “I can tell he’s volunteering at night. That much is obvious. But where? I walked past his desk and saw he has a second bag for a change of clothes. Not gym; he’s long since passed the _show-the-ex-wife-what-she’s-missing_ routine. So a uniform. I saw a flashlight in his bag. Nighttime patrols?”

Sherlock gasps and claps his palms together, delighted, “Of course, he’s volunteering at the Met! But why?”

He grabs the handset of his landline once again and dials a number, then turns to the camera and points to his phone, mouthing ‘voicemail again’, “Mycroft, it’s me. Again. Stop ignoring me and pick up the phone! I swear if the tables were turned, I’d... Ugh, just answer this. Do we run any volunteer programs with the Met—?”

The call connects, and an annoyed Mycroft responds from the other side, “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Sherlock smirks at the camera, “Good, now that I have you on the line—”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I’m driving. I have to touch the wheel, because of you!”

The call cuts smoothly. Sherlock blinks in confusion and bangs the handset down.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room. She wordlessly holds up Sherlock’s work log, looking harassed.

It reads:_10 to 10.15: Left Mycroft seventeen voicemails._

“The reception is the closest to his office; therefore, I can hear everything. I liked it before. I don’t think I like it anymore.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson and John in their respective desks. John writes slowly, sipping coffee all the while as he enters a few numbers into an Excel spreadsheet and winces at Philip’s loud phone conversation, followed by a loud bang of the handset.

“Philip,” John groans, grabbing his forehead, “can you keep it down, please?”

Philip scowls, “This is how I normally work.”

“I know. I can’t believe I’m used to it, but can you please keep it quiet, just for today?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have missed the meeting where I voted for you to show up hungover at work. See, John, this is why I have a schedule for every day of the week.”

John buries his face in his desk, trying to cut out his source of annoyance that is Philip Anderson.

“For example, today is Thursday, so I keep it light in the evening. Tomorrow, I have the rest of the week, so I’ll go and get drunk with my... _book club_ buddies.”

That makes John jolt upright, a half-formed smile tugging his lip upwards. “Wait, by tomorrow, you mean Friday, yeah?”

Philip scowls at him, “Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah,” John smirks at the camera, clicking his pen. He gets up, wincing at the sudden headache, and hobbles into Sherlock’s office.

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock in Sherlock’s office. John closes the door behind him excitedly.

“Listen, I found out something about Anderson.”

Sherlock’s ears perk up, “Is he secretly a humanoid piloted by an amoeba?”

“Haha, but no. Anderson thinks today’s Thursday.”

Sherlock frowns. “Is it? I usually don’t care to keep track of stupid things like that.”

“It’s Friday, Sherlock. But Anderson thinks it’s Thursday, so he’s going to come to work tomorrow. On a Saturday and...” John gives him a conspiratorial look and Sherlock catches on at once, grinning.

“OH! Marvellous work, John! Let’s keep at it. Meanwhile, I might be onto something as well. The HR rep is a volunteer officer at the Met.”

John’s mouth hangs open, “Greg? How did you figure?”

“He came in with a bag of change of clothes and a flashlight.”

John frowns, “I come in with a change of clothes too. At times.”

“You don’t have a pattern. You do it when you think you’re putting on extra pounds and feel the need to cycle. No, Lestrade doesn’t work out, and neither does he cycle to work. He brings a uniform to work, obvious from the size of the bag. Combine that with a flashlight, and the fact that he brings the bag in every alternate day, volunteer neighbourhood patrol is looking good.”

John chuckles, “Amazing!”

“A little obvious,” Sherlock smiles tightly, trying to hide his pleasure. “Now, I believe he has a volunteer officer badge in his inner breast pocket, which he was about to show-off to Molly before I interrupted him. Ugh, I always interrupt at the wrong time.”

“I’m pretty regular with biking to office, y’know.”

Sherlock gives John a stern look, “No, you’re not. Anyway, I want to figure out why the HR rep... Lestrade... is volunteering, so, here’s the plan. After lunch, you go over to him, engage him in some inane conversation about...” he glances at John’s shirt collar, shoulders and tie, “football?”

“Close. Rugby.”

Sherlock huffs, “Rugby. Then I’ll sneak up on him and reveal to everyone that I was right all along.”

John crosses his arms, expression dubious, “You know, he might not like that very much.”

“Why not?!”

“Sounds like he’s trying really hard to keep it under covers, so maybe—”

“Ugh, secrets. So boring. Secrets are much fun when they’re out in the open.”

John chuckles, shaking his head, “Okay fine, you loon. And don’t forget about Anderson.”

Sherlock winks, “Don’t worry, I’ll come up to your desk in a while. By the way, what did Mycroft tell you?”

John’s good mood disappears because, under the overly casual tone, Sherlock’s voice is thickly laced with apprehension, “Let’s not... talk about that now, alright?”

And before Sherlock can answer, John bolts out of his office.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in his desk, dialling his landline. He smirks at the camera and starts talking a little loudly into the handset.

“Hey Mike, this is John. Just wanted to confirm our plans for tomorrow evening, the 27th of October, which is a, uh...” John squints at the notepad.

“Friday,” Anderson supplies without looking up.

“Friday!” John beams at the camera. “So let me know if we are still on for tomorrow evening, Friday! Okay, call me. Bye.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock coming out of his office. We see Molly get up from her chair.

“Sherlock, the purchase orders—”

“Not now, Molly. John, a minute?”

John wheels around in his chair, “Yeah?” We see Molly slinking back to reception, scribbling on Sherlock’s work log with a pointed look at the camera.

“How’re you... feeling now?” Sherlock tries.

“Good, good,” John nods, “Headache’s gone down so...”

“Oh, okay.”

“By the way, are you excited about _The Tudors_ tonight?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, “John, you know how much I despise historical dramas with all their extravagant costumes—!”

“_The Tudors_ isn’t on tonight!” Anderson peers curiously at the pair. “It’s Thursday. _The Tudors_ airs on Friday.”

John frowns, “Isn’t it Friday today?”

Philip throws him a no-nonsense look, “It’s Thursday. Or did you two lose your sense of time while being hungover too?”

Sherlock is almost about to retort but John restrains him by a lingering, clandestine grab of Sherlock’s wrist. He looks down at John’s grip and then at his face, gulping. John hastily retracts his hand away with an embarrassed cough.

* * *

Camera cuts to John standing behind Sherlock in Sherlock’s office, both trying their best to contain their constant snickering.

“Sherlock was _this_ close to blowing it.”

Sherlock elbows John in the side, deliberately missing his aim, “Yes, your timely intervention was very much appreciated.”

John punches him lightly on the arm, “_That_, out there, was beautiful! All his idea, too. Texted me from his office, asking for names of all television shows on Friday.”

Sherlock wheels around and looks up at him, smirking, “Admit it. I’m a genius.”

“Well, I did get your plan without you having to tell me about it so...”

John trails off as he beams at Sherlock’s cocky expression. For a beat, it’s almost as if the camera crew doesn’t exist for them. And then, John’s mobile phone starts ringing and the sound shatters their little moment.

“Hello? Oh, hey Sarah! Oh, you’ve got it? Yeah, give me an hour and I’ll come and collect it from you. Okay, bye.”

Sherlock frowns, “Sarah?”

John cuts the call and pockets his mobile, “Uh...”

Sherlock peers at John’s shoes, at the hem of his trousers, and does a visual sweep from bottom to top, “You’re not dating anyone.”

John glances at the camera in discomfort, “Nope. Sarah is the waitress. From yesterday?”

Recognition flashes across Sherlock’s face and instantly turns into confusion, “How did _she_ get _your_ number?”

“Uh, I—uh... called the restaurant today for our meal receipt. Sally’s been asking since morning,” John begins to ramble. “I suppose she wants to get expense reports done before month-end... before the next payroll cycle begins. It’s a little irritating, but you know how it is...”

Sherlock nods testily, “Alright. But remember to come back before lunch. As your boss, I won’t approve more than two hours of non-billable work after yesterday.”

John frowns at Sherlock’s tone, at the reminder that he is still John’s boss, and walks out of the office without another word.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock’s closed office door. Molly knocks on it urgently, pouting at the camera.

“Come in!”

Molly swings the door open, “Sherlock, in addition to the purchase orders, I’ve got some time cards you need to approve. I’ve marked the places where you need to sign.”

Sherlock glares at her; his mood has gone from bad to worse, “I _know_ where to sign, Molly!”

She cringes a little, “Thought it’d help.”

“Ugh! What’s the time? Has John returned?”

She glances at her watch, unsure, “It’s twelve-thirty. I think he went out, didn’t he?”

Disappointed, Sherlock’s vision focuses past her. His lousy mood dissolves into an exultant one as he jumps from his chair, jogging around his desk to Molly, who lets out a surprised yelp as Sherlock grabs her by her dainty shoulders.

“What—?”

“Shh, do you want to find out what Lestrade was about to show you before I interrupted you two?”

“Sherlock, I... uh, please, _please_ sign the forms—”

“Shh, shh, shut up and listen to me. Go to Lestrade and make small talk. This is better, way better than John doing it because if you chat him up, he’ll be completely distracted.”

“W-what... ?”

“Molly, do this one thing for me, please?” Sherlock gazes at her with puppy-dog eyes. “Go and make small talk with Lestrade the HR?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg Lestrade’s desk. A framed photograph of a six-year-old blonde girl, possibly his daughter, sits on his desk, next to a coffee mug with the H&H logo with several assorted colour pens in it. A box of paper clips lies next to a black stapler. His desktop computer has several word document icons, and one folder placed separately away from the rest of the files labelled: _Research._ Other folders marked _Picnic pics_ and _Income tax 2006 _are sprinkled among the rest of his computer folders.

“Hey, Greg.”

Camera pans to Molly scramming in between Greg’s chair and the grey filing cabinets next to his desk.

“Hey, Molly. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just bored. Fridays afternoons, am I right?”

Greg chuckles, licking his lip, “I swear. Hey, I was about to show you my badge, right?”

Camera subtly pans to a furtive Sherlock creeping stealthily up from behind them. Molly notices his approach but Greg doesn’t. Sherlock covertly glances at Greg’s desktop and keyboard, squinting to read the file names. Greg slides one hand into his inner breast pocket and as he is about to show Molly—

“You’re volunteering at the Met for research on your crime novel, aren’t you?”

“Christ!” Greg all but screams, clutching his chest. Sherlock gives the camera a smug smirk. Greg gapes at him, gasping for breath at the rude interruption, “What the f—?”

“Sorry, Greg,” Molly mutters guiltily. Greg wheels around to gape at her in disbelief.

“Don’t give her all the credit. She was simply a tool of my brilliance,” Sherlock grins like the Cheshire Cat, a distinct spring in his step as he grabs the mouse on Greg’s desk. “Oh, this is like Christmas! Let me read what you’ve written—”

Greg’s expression has no mirth in it as he glances around at the rest of his office, all of whom have now taken note of Sherlock’s latest antics, “Sherlock, I do not appreciate this!”

Despite the resistance, Sherlock manages to click the file called ‘Draft_Final3’ open and read the first word when Greg slaps his wrist tightly, causing him to jerk it back with a pained gasp.

“Sherlock, this is highly inappropriate!”

But he surveys Greg with narrowed eyes, massaging his wrist tenderly, “Oh, and writing a crime novel on company time isn’t?”

That promptly shuts Greg up. He casts a reproachful look on Molly, who glares at Sherlock, tight-lipped, arms crossed, expression unamused, but Sherlock does not pay attention.

“Everybody! May I have your attention?” Sherlock calls out loudly, “I have found the perfect activity for our afternoon! We are going to give back to society in collaboration with our Human Resources department. We are volunteering!”

“Do we have to?” Sally scowls.

“Yes, Sally. Mandatory work retreat.”

“That’s what you said about Cluedo!”

Sherlock flicks his wrists, “This is much better. This is leadership, this is corporate social responsibility... all the HR nonsense!”

“Greg?!” A chagrined Philip demands. Greg simply exhales an all-suffering sigh causing Sherlock to turn, giving him a homicidal look.

“Well technically, he’s not wrong. Ed Truck before never engaged the staff in volunteer activities and they are usually kind of policy.”

The entire office groans collectively, as opposed to Sherlock’s excited gasp, “See? Even HR approves it. Molly, figure out carpools. In fifteen minutes, we are driving down to the station, and we’re going to “volunteer”.”

“But,” Greg begins weakly, “you can volunteer on a weekend—”

Sherlock pouts angrily, lowering himself to eye level with a sitting Greg, “I will read out your factually incorrect novel in front of the entire office if you say another word.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a defeated Molly in the conference room scribbling on a clipboard. She flips it around to reveal Sherlock’s work log. There are several new additions.

_10.15 to 10.30: Discussed _The Tudors_ with John_

_10.30 to 10.45: Promised to sign time cards_

_10.45 to 11.00: Started reading a book called ‘Becoming Evil: How Ordinary People Commit Genocide and Mass Murder’_

_11.00 to 11.15: Renewed promise to sign both time cards and purchase orders_

_11.15 to 11.30: Changed server passwords without telling anyone as a cybersecurity measure_

_11.30 to 12.00: Called IT after server passwords were sent in an encrypted email that could not be decrypted_

_12.00 to 12.15: Convinced Mrs Hudson that the coffee was poisoned_

_12.15 to 12.30: Had lunch in office and finished reading ‘Becoming Evil’_

_12:30 to EOD: Forced the staff to volunteer at the police station_

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office as he dons his greatcoat and wraps his blue cashmere scarf around his neck.

“This is perfect. When the day began, I was hungover and Mycroft was breathing down my neck for “mixing” with my “subordinates” and whatnot. And the day progressed so tediously that I couldn’t tolerate it any longer... And then Mycroft stopped taking my calls. Well, Mycroft, this is what happens when you don’t take my calls.”

He stuffs his gloves into his coat pocket, “Only thing that’d make it better is...”

Sherlock trails off, gazing wistfully towards John’s empty desk. Then notices the camera and composes himself, “Only thing that’d make it better is an actual crime. But I’m forever hopeful.”

He smiles and winks and marches out of the office purposefully.

* * *

Camera cuts to John sitting in the outdoor seating of the previous day’s restaurant, thinking he’s hidden from the camera crew. We, however, film him from a clandestine distance as he appears to be engrossed in an enjoyable conversation with Sarah, the waitress. We can hear faint audio through his hidden collar mic.

“There you are,” Sarah exclaims brightly, after retrieving a piece of paper from her pocket, “your receipt from yesterday. My God, you two were so plastered!”

John chuckles fondly, “Yeah, shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not? You got a dressing down from your nanny after?”

“Uh yeah, sort of, got into a little bit of trouble.”

“Well,” she pats him on the shoulder, winking, “it’s okay, innit? For an afternoon of fun with your boyfriend? You know, I’d have given you my number if you weren’t gay.”

John licks his lips expectantly, “I do have your number. And I’m not gay.”

“I’m just saying,” she ignores John’s insistence, “why are the good ones always gay?”

“And I’m saying... this good one... isn’t... gay.”

Sarah narrows her eyes and a disbelieving smile spreads on her face, “Uh, no...”

“Uh, yes. I think I’d know my sexual orientation, wouldn’t I?”

Sarah’s grin slowly disappears and transforms into wide-eyed embarrassment, “Wait, no, did I just... did I just—”

John waits for her to catch up, propping his chin on the keel of his palm, restrained humour playing on his lips.

“... _did I just ask you out?”_

John succumbs to full-blown laughter, “Uh, yes, you did just ask me out!”

“You’re actually not gay?”

John’s smile turns humourless and now it’s Sarah’s turn to laugh into the back of her hand, “I’m sorry, I really thought... well, okay, now that we’ve established that, where are you taking me?”

“Tomorrow? Movie and dinner?”

“Acceptable, John,” she preens, twirling her hair. “Wait, was this receipt thing real, or did you just come here to get me to ask you out?”

“I really wish I was that visionary, but no, I did need the receipt, so thanks.”

* * *

Camera cuts to focus on ‘Lavender Hill Police Station’ and quickly pans to everybody who has had to accompany Sherlock to a police station in the middle of a Friday. Greg glances at the camera uncomfortably. A double-decker bus on the background has passengers peering out of its windows at the weird throng of office employees being filmed by a camera crew. But Sherlock basks in the wind, enjoying the onlookers’ attention.

Sally and Philip glance at each other, at the back of the group, sharing disapproving looks. Behind Sherlock, Molly tries to make herself appear smaller.

“This is what we’re going to do,” Sherlock yells at the camera over the wind and the traffic. “We’re going to walk in and all of us are going to volunteer. We’ll be assigned to police squads, and then we’ll get to consult on any lines of investigation that have been missed by the police.”

Greg shakes his head at the camera, rolling his eyes. That is not the way things work in a police station.

He turns to a Molly peering at her ringing mobile phone.

“John...? Yeah, we’re not at the office... Sherlock got us to come out to a police station... no, no, Sherlock’s fine. And we’re all fine too, thanks for asking... No one’s hurt, nothing like that... okay, I’ll send you the address...”

* * *

Camera cuts to a glass office door that says ‘Mycroft Holmes. Chief Executive Officer’. We pan to his office. It’s in a high rise, evident from the sparse tops of the skyscrapers visible through the blinds of the large window behind him. There’s a decorative cactus in the left corner behind Mycroft’s uncluttered cherry wood desk. A couple of awards are kept on top of a cabinet. His desktop is an iMac, a departure from the cheesy Dell computers in the Ferndale branch, and his desk has only one notepad and a sleek lamp, with a few tasteful pens and a landline.

Mycroft picks up the handset and dials a number, letting it ring on speaker.

_“... Good afternoon,”_ Molly’s monotone voice wafts in as the call connects. “_You have reached the offices of Holmes & Holmes, Ferndale. Currently, the entire staff is out volunteering for local law enforcement—”_

_“__—as an HR-mandated leadership exercise,”_ Sherlock’s voice cuts into the voicemail message. Mycroft frowns.

_“... as an HR-mandated leadership exercise,”_ Molly repeats. “_Please leave a message.” _

Mycroft rubs his temples, exhaling in defeat, and cuts the call.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock peering angrily at the camera crew outside the Lavender Hill Police Station.

“Well, apparently, things are not so streamlined in a police station. Don’t know why I didn’t expect that...”

* * *

Camera cuts to the entire Ferndale branch staff marching into the police station. Only Sherlock is confident and self-satisfied as he walks up to the reception handled by a young policewoman who keeps typing away at her desk. The rest of the employees follow him as mere hostages.

“Hello,” Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans over the reception, “we are all here to volunteer.”

The policewoman looks up and frowns at the group in confusion, “What?”

“You know Lestrade, one of your volunteers?” Sherlock reaches into the group and pulls a reluctant Greg out by the wrist.

“Uh, yes...?”

“Brilliant! Do you have any unsolved murders we can solve?”

The policewoman bites back a chuckle as Greg facepalms in exasperation, “He volunteers in our night patrol squads, sir.”

“Yes I know, but—”

“We do not give civilians access to our cases, sir.”

“What if the “civilian” is an incandescent genius and can solve all your cases?”

There’s a snigger at the back. Camera pans to Sally stifling her laughter.

“Regardless, sir, a volunteer police program requires eight weeks of prior training before you can actually start volunteering. It’s not a soup kitchen.”

Sherlock’s excitement drains away, “Eight weeks? I don’t know if I even want to volunteer in eight weeks!”

“Probably shouldn’t do it then, dear?” Mrs Hudson offers hopefully, but Sherlock only lets out a disappointed exhale.

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock outside the station.

“... the police are rude and arrogant... unwilling to accept help at all costs...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and his random group of employees at the station reception.

“You’ve recently begun in the police force, obvious from where you’re sitting. You smoke but are unsuccessfully trying to quit. Good thing, that; smoking will kill you. Your mother died a long time ago. Your father was a manual labourer. Your elder brother is an airline pilot, I can tell all that from the family picture on your desk...”

Camera zooms onto the picture of the policewoman and a slightly taller, similar-looking man in plainclothes pointing at her. An older man is beaming proudly next to the siblings.

“... Your internet boyfriend is from another country, possibly Canada, and not real, sorry about that, and you’ve recently shifted to vegetarianism. Now, tell me this, is there any process that fast-tracks one’s eligibility as a volunteer?”

The policewoman shakes her head mutely, slightly terrified. Others in the station are starting to whisper.

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock outside the station. The anger is now gone, replaced by a vacant look in his eyes.

“... I just—”

A tentative hand on his shoulder cuts him off. We zoom out to see a silent Greg Lestrade pat him twice, almost sympathetically. Sherlock doesn’t say much, simply exhales dejectedly and puts on his gloves. We see Greg’s eyes wander beyond the camera.

“... Is that... John’s car?”

Sherlock’s head jerks up. Camera pans around to John pulling up on the other side of the street. He gets out and shuts the car door with a loud bang.

“Is he parking in a no-park zone?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Why are you making obvious statements one after another?”

Greg gives Sherlock a stern look, shaking his head, and calls out loudly, “Hey, John! You can’t park there!”

John jogs up to both of them, “What the hell’s going on?”

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock mimics his tone.

“Um... I came back to the office and found it empty. I thought something had happened, so I called Molly.”

“Oh, you called _Molly?”_ Sherlock scoffs.

“John,” Greg points at his car, “can you please park your car somewhere else? It’s really bothering me!”

“Okay, okay, Jesus, Greg!” he shakes his head, puzzled by the entire conversation. “I’m going! Is that fine?”

As John jogs away back to his car, camera pans to Molly who pokes her head out of the station doors, “Sherlock! Can we all go back to the office now please?”

Greg peers at Sherlock’s face, searching for anything that can tell him his thought processes. But there’s nothing, just a brief look at Greg, followed by a slight nod. Greg then turns around and shows a thumbs up to a relieved Molly, who sneaks back in to break the good news.

“You’d better phone John, then,” Greg nodded in the general direction of where John’s car has driven off. “I sent the poor guy away. And when I get back to the office, I will organise a real volunteering weekend for the staff. How about that?”

Sherlock hums absentmindedly.

* * *

Camera cuts to Anderson and Greg back in the conference room.

“So basically,” Anderson begins, “what we think happened in Sherlock’s mind was that he was expecting to show up and dazzle everyone with his freaky tricks. I think he had enough of that in the office—because how long can you elicit new details out of the same group of people you see every day—and wanted a different playing field.”

Greg frowns, “No, _you_ think that.”

“Oh, you think he went there with a purpose other than showing off?”

“No, NO, ’m not saying that. I think... Sherlock really did think he could solve some crimes. Once he realised you can’t get ‘fast-tracked’ to do actual police work—”

“—or do actual managerial work.”

Greg frowns, “You do know you can always lodge a complaint with me in case of any grievances, right? I’m the HR rep.”

Anderson throws him a dirty look, “Fine. Misuse of company time and property. Write that up.”

“Property?!”

“His car that he used to drive to this stupid waste of time?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Anyway, what I was saying was Sherlock naively got excited about some reprieve from the boring office life, and realised police work isn’t all that glamorous... frankly, it’s very boring... and he got disappointed.”

Philip rolls his eyes, “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Why not? It’s the premise of my next Pegasus Todd thriller novel.”

“Pegasus Todd?” Philip scoffs, “Sounds an awful lot like Lestra—”

But before he can finish, there’s a sharp knock on the conference room window, office side. Both turn back to find an unamused Sherlock peering at them through the blinds.

“Get back to work!”

* * *

Camera cuts to John inside the Met police station, gaping at the numbered wooden doors that contain no trace of any of the Ferndale branch employees. He turns around, squinting from one end of the lobby to another, and looks up at the camera as the crew motions to him.

“What...? They left?”

He sighs, shaking his head, “I swear, Sherlock is a cock!”

* * *

Camera cuts to a smug Sherlock sitting in his office.

“Of course, I left John there! He was supposed to be _my_ partner-in-crime by outing the HR, not blowing off work with _Sarah _like an idiot!”

He chuckles and remembers something.

“Speaking of idiots, make sure you all catch Anderson coming into work tomorrow at eight-thirty in the morning,” Sherlock giggles. “I want that footage of his angry puffed-up face when he realises it’s actually Saturday... I really hope he kicks something...”

* * *

Camera cuts to the Ferndale Business Park open parking lot, looking unusually cheerful for an 8:35 am on Saturday, the next day. A fast blue car pulls up and effortlessly parks in the empty lot. Philip Anderson, dressed in a plain blue shirt and black trousers under a khaki overcoat and black scarf, gets out of the car and peers at the office building. It’s locked.

“What...?”

He goes to the building doors, trying to shake them into yielding. He bangs on them several times and then notices the digital clock inside with the actual date: 28th October 2007.

He frowns, flips open his phone. The date is, indeed, 28th October. It’s when he notices what day it is that his face puffs up in anger as he kicks the door in frustration.

“Wankers, the lot of them! Complete, utter wankers!”


	8. The Client: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Irene team up to land a big client for H&H in order to prevent redundancy. Sally tries to convince Philip to act on a piece of information he has been sitting on for weeks.

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

"Uh yes, I've begun seeing Sarah. It's new, it's not very official yet, so," he glances at the general direction of the office out the conference room window, "if you could keep it under wraps, I'd be very... grateful. I don't want to tell people in the office. I don't want to offend... Sally, for example.

"Why Sally, you ask? Uh... I don't know, who else?" John chuckles nervously. "What? Sherlock? Now that you mention it, I _did_ have something to ask you chaps. Does Sherlock seem normal? I mean, as normal as the word can apply to Sherlock?"

John shakes his head in resignation.

"Ever since that day, he's been... weirder than usual, and I can't understand why. It's been a week since we pranked Philip, and Philip is at large, which I do not like at all..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office, a few days ago. We see John barge in, licking his lips expectantly, a spring in his step.

"So..."

He enters without knocking, making Sherlock look up in bewilderment.

"Philip's left his computer unmanned," he slides past Sherlock's desk and grabs the backrest of his chair to swivel Sherlock away from his computer towards the rest of the office.

"He's still logged in, and I have an idea: he was doing his monthly reports, and for some infuriating reason, he always refers to himself in the third person in the reports, like, _Philip found... Philip did_. So, I found something called a macro on the internet, so every time he types his name in the program, it'll appear as some other word. Sounds juvenile, I know, but it will wind him up! What do you think?"

Sherlock clears his throat and looks pointedly at John's arm, which is dangerously close to brushing against Sherlock's shoulder. Colour drains from John's face, which is mere inches away from Sherlock's, and he retracts his arm quickly. Too quickly.

* * *

Camera cuts back to John in the conference room, present day.

"Or that day when Philip began timing me and threatened to "write me up" for misuse of company time..."

* * *

Camera cuts to the Philip Anderson and John desk clump from a few days ago. John is on the phone, chuckling as he balances the handset against the hollow of his shoulder while typing out an email. He keeps pausing in his work to whisper into the phone, sometimes with amazement, other times with cocky self-assurance. Just out of his line of sight, Philip Anderson huffs with irritation at John's good mood.

With an all-suffering sigh, Philip reaches into a drawer to pull out a stopwatch. John frowns when he takes note of it but continues his conversation nevertheless. Philip resets his stopwatch, jaws clenched and ticking, and starts it with a beep, setting it in an open space where John can see the timer ticking.

With a nasty smirk, Philip declares loudly so the entire office can hear him, "Thirty seconds!"

John frowns in confusion, ending his telephonic conversation with a mutter of, "I'll call you back in a while..." before turning his attention to Philip.

"What's... going on? Philip?"

"I'm writing you up for misuse of company time," Philip answers without looking up. John throws him a look of disbelief.

"What?"

"Misuse of company time is essentially the same as stealing money from the cash register of a grocery store you work at," he looks up to the camera with a lofty expression. _"The Smart Businessman."_

John's bewilderment turns into exasperation, _"The Smart Businessman_ magazine said that?"

"It will, this Friday. I've sent in a letter to the editor. One minute!"

"One minute?"

"You've wasted one minute of your day doing no work. Keep it up, John, and you'll have 365 minutes of the entire year without work."

We see John grab his mobile phone and start a timer of his own. Philip doesn't notice that as he keeps droning on, "That is six hours and five minutes of work you're getting paid extra per year. That IS time-theft."

John nods mock-gravely, "Six hours per year? You're right, that's a _terrible_ loss of work for H&H!"

"That's right."

"Dreadful business. Wonder why nobody’s ever done anything about it."

"That changes today, John. As your superior—"

"You are not my superior."

"—I will write up a disciplinary review and place it on the desk of _my_ immediate superior."

"Which would be Sherlock." John's smirk grows. Philip's smirk vanishes, realising he hadn't thought of that.

"Well—"

"I also have follow-up questions," John chirps, "Technically, 365 minutes means each day of the week."

"Uh..."

"You have to count out the weekends, the holidays—"

"I know!"

"—most of us get at least a week for Christmas, Philip. Do you work through the holidays, Philip? D'you have no respect for the holidays, Philip? How would your clients feel if they knew you hated Christmas?"

"I do NOT hate Christmas!” Philip refutes the allegation to anybody who can hear him, “That's a lie!"

"I don't believe it," John lets out a mock-disgusted scoff, "Now tell me exactly how many minutes I waste per day or I'll write you up for religious intolerance in the workplace. Oh, and make it quick because..."

He holds up his phone, smirking. The timer reads five minutes and forty-six seconds.

"... you've already wasted six minutes of your day, Philip. Keep it up, and you're looking at a thousand minutes of the entire year without work! See how I factored the holidays in?"

Philip lets out a desperate grunt as he scurries back to his desktop. Satisfied, John swivels around at Sherlock's office, expecting a bravo. But Sherlock, who had been monitoring their exchange earlier, turns away to his computer pointedly, avoiding John's triumphant gaze.

John's face falls as he looks forlornly at the camera.

* * *

Camera cuts back to John in the conference room, present day.

"Philip nearly offered himself up on a plate on so many occasions," John shakes his head in resignation. "But Sherlock chose to remain cooped up in his office, unwilling to take the bait. He's the one who comes up with all the brilliant stuff but now, no matter how many times I try to get him to do something, he makes an excuse not to and bolts away!"

John's shoulders slouch, the edge of his thin-lipped mouth downturned in misery.

"I know Sherlock has this aura of this... untouchability around him, but I thought... I don't know what I thought..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, sitting at his desk.

"So, John Watson is in a relationship," he nods tersely, glancing at John at his desk, his back to Sherlock, "with the girl who we met during our... sales calls lunch. Also, she fancies her married boss and has a gay brother. Good for John, who also has a gay sister so... something to talk about there. Maybe they can all go and be gay together, nope!"

He shakes his head, backtracking on his jealous soliloquy, "Not that... Dear Lord, what is this office doing to me?"

Sherlock lets out a tired sigh.

"Anyway, he has tried to engage me in his silly pranks as consolation repeatedly. Well, John, I don't need consolation. There's no need for consolation. I'm the branch manager, and I've got work to do—"

There's a rustling sound from behind the camera, stopping Sherlock in his tracks as he half-rises from his chair to assess the situation outside. The deep crease between his eyebrows vanishes. Camera pans to see...

Irene Adler-Norton at the reception, looking fabulous in a black greatcoat and engaged in conversation with Molly. We pan back to Sherlock, who buries his face in his palms with a groan.

"I forgot that it was today," he grits his teeth at the camera and buttons his suit jacket in preparation for greeting his boss. "Some people leave a bad taste in your mouth. Irene Adler-Norton, on the other hand, causes full-on halitosis."

There's a knock on Sherlock's door, which creaks open to reveal Irene, looking as sour as Sherlock about the entire affair.

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in the conference room.

"Two weeks ago, Sherlock went on sales calls with John Watson. I approved the timesheets because it was a hallelujah moment: Sherlock was finally doing the job he was supposed to. Until Mycroft informed me in his... trademark manner that they had a drunken day out instead. So, I thought it would be better if Sherlock stayed in office for some time, learnt from the superb observational skills he claims to possess. Imagine my surprise when even _that_ did not work."

Camera zooms onto Irene's deadpan face. No surprise in her expression whatsoever.

"And then, Mycroft proceeded to... _educate_ me, in his trademark fashion, of course, that as Sherlock's manager, I needed to 'play mother' to him. In addition to seven other branch managers and two regional sales directors who already report to me. On top of... everything else..."

Camera zooms in on the right-hand ring finger. There's only a band of light skin where her wedding ring used to be.

"So, here I am, taking Sherlock with me for a sales pitch, to possibly our biggest client yet: The London White Pages. If we get them, we might not have to make the Ferndale branch redundant at all. But... I am taking Sherlock with me... And as soon he gets there, he'll open his mouth. Of course, I don't need to tell _you_ what will happen next."

A deliberate smirk tips a corner of her lip upwards, the glint in her eyes menacing.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room. She seems happy.

"Today's a good day. Sherlock and Irene are going on a sales meeting to bag The London White Pages," she nods solemnly. "If they get them, our branch might not have to be made redundant. But... Sherlock is going, so I wouldn't be too sure."

Molly holds up Sherlock's empty work log, looking too relieved about it.

"Anyway when I fax this to Mycroft today, it will have only one entry. But that entry will be about actual work, a massive sale. Which means I will not get a call back from Mycroft about elaborating on the details of Sherlock's impromptu seminar on why the Strangler definitely can't be the murderer in the crime novel that Greg is writing."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office. Irene remains standing, the door closed behind her, as she passes her greatcoat wordlessly to Sherlock. Sherlock does a deductive spot-check of her business suit, her hands, her high heels as he takes her coat and hangs it alongside his on the coat rack behind his desk.

"You're not hiding it well," he remarks, his back turned to her. "You're right-handed, but you've just handed me your coat with your left hand, Irene Adler-Norton. Or should I call you Ms Adler like old times?"

"Perhaps," she smirks, deliberately sidestepping his question "or maybe I did that just to baffle you. Like old times."

Sherlock frowns, "What purpose would that serve?"

"You tell me."

Irene's searching gaze is tinged with mischief. Sherlock huffs out an irritated breath.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

"Irene thinks she's so clever, that's why I don't like her. She was my father's protégé, so Mycroft doesn't like her. Every Christmas, every New Year and every other stupid holiday in between, I've had to acknowledge her existence. She knows everything about my family, my history and my ability to infer everything about everybody by a single glance. So naturally, she likes to 'confuse' me by _playing_ with my mind."

He lets out an irritated huff.

"Usually she's cold and professional at work, but today she's behaving like she did when she was twenty-two."

Sherlock's already deep baritone drops another perilous register, "I. Don't. Like. It."

* * *

Camera cuts to reception. John walks into H&H, hair damp from showering, tie somewhat askew. His head unconsciously turns towards Sherlock's office, all the blinds drawn.

"Hiya, Molly."

"Hey, John. Cycling day today?"

"Yeah. Figured might as well do it regularly."

She smiles, "These messages came for you, and a package."

"Thanks." He collects the sparse post-its and a little square courier packet, all the while his head turned towards Sherlock's office. As he settles at his desk, the camera zooms in on his lost and forlorn face.

"You're late," Philip's voice floats in.

"Shut up, Philip."

In a flurry of decision, John slams the package on his desk and leaps from his chair, his newfound resolve causing a pulse in his jaw. Scaling the distance to Sherlock's office in two broad strides, he creaks the door open without knocking.

He does not notice Irene hidden in the shadow between the door and wall, taken aback by the interruption.

"Hey, Sherlock. I have the perfect idea for a prank."

Startled by John's sudden intrusion, Sherlock frowns in bewilderment, mouth opening and closing as if he wants to say something. But John storms into his office, wanting to get his words in before Sherlock can interrupt.

"And before you can stop me, I'm going to lay it out in front of you. And I've thought long and hard about this, okay? Good. So, Philip has been getting on my nerves all week, and I was thinking about jamming his drawers so they only come out two inches. That way, he can see everything in them but he can't get at it. It'd drive him crazy. Good, right?"

"John—"

"I know, I know, it's nowhere as good as what _you_ come up with, but hear me out, Sherlock? I also found Philip's résumé, so I'll be _slightly _editing it if you know what I mean," he winks suggestively, "and posting it on Monster.com for any jobs that take him out of the country. I'm thinking France; Philip hates the French."

Sherlock heaves a defeated sigh and tucks his chin into his chest.

"John, turn around."

"What's wrong with you—?"

Sherlock now buries his face in his palms, _"Just_ turn around."

"No!" John plants his feet firmly on the ground, "I'm not leaving until we prank him at least once—"

"So this is what they call a meet-cute, don't they?"

We see John's shoulders tense and hear his breath hitch at the low, honeyed, feminine voice. Camera pans to behind John's left, between the door to Sherlock's office and the wall, from where Irene Adler finally emerges, an amused smirk playing on her lips. John suppresses a defeated sigh.

"Oh, perfect!"

John's low mutter makes Irene arch a wry eyebrow.

"It's, uh... not a meet-cute," Sherlock rolls his eyes, "You already know John."

Irene catches onto the slight tremor in Sherlock's almost-nonchalant tone, "No, Sherlock, I'd be fascinated to hear the excuse John manages to fish himself out of this... sticky situation."

"Don't mind her, John," Sherlock stretches his lips insincerely. "She's miserable about her divorce; only misery brings her joy anymore."

"Oh?" Irene's smirk grows at Sherlock's prickly tone, "Is _that_ how you talk about your boss?"

"It's nothing, Irene," John chuckles tightly. "I-I wasn't talking about Sherlock. What I meant was... Actually, I was talking about this client, his name was also Philip... and we met on one of our, uh... sales calls last week."

"Oh, you had sales calls last week too?"

"Two weeks ago. I misspoke," John is starting to hold his ground, "He's got these terrible colleagues playing pranks on him—"

John closes his mouth shut as Irene puts up a palm, beginning to backtrack out of Sherlock's office.

"Please don't enter without knocking, John. Who knows what your manager is up to behind these closed doors?"

She smirks and shuts the door on John's perplexed face. Slowly turning around, an embarrassed John realises that the entire office's eyes are on him and his disastrous interaction with his boss' boss. Camera pans to Philip who tuts a tad too loudly, having discovered John's plot against him.

"Shame, John," he shakes his head, his sneer full of contempt. "First Mycroft, and now Irene. Nobody likes the golden boy anymore."

"Shut up, Philip."

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock's office. Irene now perches on the chair from across him, legs crossed. Sherlock is not amused.

"Is _this_ what divorce does to normal people?"

"You think I'm 'normal people'?"

"Maybe a touch above."

She fixes him with a startlingly intense gaze, "You like him. He certainly doesn't hate you, going by how he began to defend you with no regard for himself."

Sherlock gives the camera a murderous sidelong glance, "Is this what you're here for?"

"Oh no, I'm here so that we can go for a 'sales pitch'."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but thinks better of it and takes a step back, reassessing her unusually relaxed body language. Frowning at her overly casual tone, he chooses his next words with care.

"You're not your usual... _frigid_ self."

"Not bad, Junior. You'll find I'm quite 'flexible'."

Sherlock bristles with annoyance at 'Junior', nostrils flaring in indignation.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, sour-faced.

"Oh, I see why someone would divorce her. She's very divorceable. As soon as you meet her, you can't wait to take her to court to get rid of her!"

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and Irene in his office. Sherlock shakes his head, exasperated to be the one playing well-behaved adult all of a sudden.

"Mycroft told me that getting the London White Pages was crucial. It could keep Ferndale from redundancies."

"Oh!" She scoffs, "So you suddenly care about redundancies now?! Where was your concern two weeks ago when Mycroft was yelling at me?"

"It's my job!" Sherlock glances at the camera cautiously, "I don't want them to lose their livelihoods!"

"Oh no," she purrs smugly, "I think you wouldn't want _one_ particular person to lose their job."

"Yes, Martha Hudson is five years away from her retirement, Molly Hooper needs this job for just one more year so she can finish nursing school, and the human resources rep has a six-year-old daughter. They all need... protection."

For a second, it seems as if Irene is about to retort with something cutting, but she bites it back, something akin to quiet respect dawning on her face at Sherlock's stoic expression. After a long, thoughtful moment, she resigns herself with rummaging into her leather handbag, finding a file full of colourful graphs and charts.

"So, here's a projection of the White Pages' needs for the next five years," she begins explaining the market research to Sherlock, "I'm going to lead the meeting with..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the emergency staircase, looking agitated. We see Sally approach, lashes lowered, gait furtive.

"Monkey," Philip lets out a relieved exhale as he sees Sally approaching. They kiss briefly before breaking away, "did anyone see you?"

"No. You?"

Philip shakes his head mutely. Sally covers his hands with her palms, smiling reassuringly.

"Irene is here."

"I know."

"Once they're back from their meeting, you can talk to her in person. This is your chance."

Hesitation crosses Philip's face which Sally picks up on at once, "Pip..."

"We all have a past, monkey."

Sally retracts her touch, "You've been sitting on this crucial piece of information for weeks!"

"I know."

"He's not normal. He's an addict. Addicts crave distraction when they're not high."

"I know."

"He'll keep distracting us because he's bored at a job he did not earn for himself."

"I know."

"And pretty soon, he'll run us into the ground, and we'll be out of jobs. You saw his file: he could burn this place to the ground, figuratively _and_ literally."

"I _know."_

"And you've to take care of Peter. How're you going to keep looking after your cousin if you're out of a job?"

Philip shakes his head, "Exactly, monkey! Sobriety isn't as black and white as you think. I wouldn't want someone judging Peter at his job like that!"

Sally crosses her arms, lips pursed in an annoyed pucker and eyes narrowed, "Would you want Peter as manager of this branch?"

"Of course not! He'd be terrible."

She throws up her arms in frustration as if to say _see what I mean_.

"I'm just not... comfortable doing this, Sally."

"Sherlock's NOT your cousin, Philip!" Sally brandishes an angry finger at him, "Peter is. Do NOT confuse them!"

"Of course, he's not. You think I don't know it?"

"Then _what_ is it?!"

"I don't... want to be a hypocrite! I can't _want_ something for Peter and then take it away from someone like him when they try and take a stab at it. Why can't you understand this?!"

Sally sighs defeatedly, her expression empathetic. They glance at each other guiltily and look away, the space between them brimming with tension and turmoil.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room, the reticence and uncertainty from his voice long gone.

"No, I don't feel bad for Sherlock Holmes! He's an entitled, rich, white male who throws tantrums whenever things don't go his way and spends his entire day with John, his lackey, trying to make a mockery of my job!"

He scoffs, "What makes you think I'd feel sympathy for Sherlock Holmes of all people?!"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room.

"Yes, you're absolutely right! _Macbeth_ IS one of Shakespeare's greatest plays. Everyone thinks it's _Hamlet_ or _Romeo & Juliet_, but _Macbeth_ is my personal favourite. No one in this office is refined enough to discuss classical literature, so thank you for that! How did you know?"

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock's office door as the door handle turns in his place. Molly looks up as Sherlock and Irene walk out of his office and towards the reception. Irene smiles at her politely as she slides into the coat Sherlock holds out for her. Molly glances at the camera furtively, a hush-hush expression on her face.

"Molly," walking past Irene, Sherlock leans over the reception, "I won't be long, probably before lunch, so just keep everyone working on whatever they're doing."

"Okay, sure. Good luck."

Sherlock gives her a droll stare. Molly blushes a little, her dimples deepening, unaware of Irene's watchful eye on their interactions.

"I know you don't believe in luck... but still—"

"I do think we're on a schedule," Irene clears her throat, interrupting Molly. "The White Pages rep gets to TGI Fridays at ten. It's 9:45."

Frowning, Sherlock spins around, "I thought we were meeting at the Radisson."

"No."

"We're meeting... the London White Pages... in an American restaurant?"

Sherlock pauses for a prompting moment to let the irony sink in, but Irene appears unfazed. Behind them, Molly almost lets out a laugh, but Irene's focused gaze makes her swallow it down.

* * *

Camera cuts to John coming out of the break room with his tea mug. He glances at Sherlock's empty office and looks inquiringly at the camera.

"They left," Philip remarks, without looking up at John.

"I wasn't..."

"We've been sharing desk clumps for three years now, John," Philip huffs condescendingly, rolling his eyes for theatrical effect. "I know what your silences mean."

John looks at the camera in open-mouthed astonishment, somewhat touched. That is not the sort of thing he ever expected Philip to admit, "Did you hit your head somewhere, Philip?"

Philip throws him a dark look. "I will admit, it has been fun, watching you suck up to Sherlock. Too bad he's immune to flattery. His only saving grace, I suppose."

John's slightly pleased manner vanishes with each word, and he glances at the camera as if to say _there he is. Back in all his glory._

* * *

Camera cuts to a loud graffitied wall with Freddie Mercury's iconic pose on it. We pan towards the bar and the exaggeratedly American interiors of TGI Fridays. It's a quiet Monday morning, past the breakfast hour, so it's deserted except for a man in his early forties sitting in a booth by himself, typing away on his phone.

We pan to the entrance door to see Irene stalk in, Sherlock in tow, towards the man, presumably their White Pages client.

"Hello? Mr Lowe?"

The man looks up at Irene's smiling face and rises, extending a hand, "Oh hello. Please call me Andy."

"Pleasure to meet you, Andy. I'm Irene; we spoke on the phone. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, my associate. Thank you very much for meeting with us. Did we keep you waiting?"

"Oh no, I got here just five minutes ago," he shakes hands with Sherlock. "Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes."

"Likewise. And please, call me Sherlock. Also, before you ask, no, I'm not related to the company founders," Sherlock plasters an insincere smile across his lips, making Irene frown at the lie, "just a happy coincidence."

Andy's eyes widen as he subsides into good-natured chuckles, "Oh... you won't believe it, but I was just going to ask you that! That's mad, innit? It's like you can read my mind!"

Sherlock throws the camera a suspicious sidelong glance as if internally debating whether Andy is being sarcastic or not.

"Excuse me, waiter," Irene turns around, "can we have a table for three, please?"

"This way, please."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock, Irene and Andy sitting around a table, reading from menus. The silence hangs thick and awkward around them. Sherlock tries to catch Irene's eye, waiting for her to lead the meeting like she'd told him back at the office, but she resolutely avoids his gaze, sifting through the drinks menu.

"I suppose we could start by going over the White Pages' business requirements," Sherlock tries uncertainly. "Irene?"

Irene's lips draw into a thin line as she pulls out a spiral-bound presentation file, "Yes... So, Andy, we've prepared a five-year projection of your expected paper needs..."

"Right," Andy nods, "Well, we have not been immune to the slowing demand over the past five years. Frankly, internet, mobiles, etc., are game-changers, so the name of the game is budget reduction. People are looking up to the White Pages less and less as more information is being made available on the fingertips..."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in the restaurant, arms crossed, expression irritated, quite a few booths far away from an awkward Andy and a completely uninterested Irene.

"That man is not here to give us his business. He's here simply to be wined and dined. And Irene has already given up! What a waste of a perfectly good day!"

* * *

Camera cuts to the trio back at their table together.

"So Andy," Sherlock begins politely. "I see you've travelled quite a lot. Around the world, twice in the past month, in fact. Rather an extensive honeymoon for so hasty a wedding ceremony."

Andy's friendly face breaks into boyish wonder, "Who told you?"

"No one told me," Sherlock's smug smile makes Irene roll her eyes, "I simply noticed. Oh, and congratulations on keeping the balance in the universe. One marriage is born in the wake of another's de—"

"Hello?" Irene calls out loudly in the direction of the server, startling both her companions and cutting Sherlock's next words off, "We're ready to order!"

Andy looks at both of them curiously but goes back to Sherlock, "Wait, you noticed?!"

"Your watch," Sherlock barely suppresses his smug smirk, "Limited edition: came out last month. Time's correct, but the date is two days behind, so it's crossed the dateline twice and you haven't bothered to alter it. But you work for the White Pages. Unlikely your job requires international travel; therefore, it must be personal. Left-hand ring finger: your wedding band is itchy, you keep adjusting it, it doesn't fit you well, which suggests a sudden decision to get married and hence a hasty wedding ceremony. As a result, the rings weren't procured right, so you made do with whatever you had available at the moment. Putting two and two together, tada!"

Irene's expression is a strange mixture of impressed and exasperated. But Andy doesn't hold back, clapping his palms in delight.

"Bloody hell, that was brilliant! I really thought you had looked me up on the internet or something like that. That's what salesmen do nowadays, don't they?"

"I'm not a salesman, and you're not on the internet."

"I have a MySpace."

"Doesn't count."

"You're so clever! I love it!" Andy's appreciation is so genuine that even Sherlock can't help but bask in it, however awkwardly.

"What if he just got fat and twiddled with the dials on his watch?" Irene interrupts, and the awkward silence from the beginning of their meeting returns. The expression on her face is stony; the undertone evidently _let's-get-back-to-the-business–at-hand._ Sherlock frowns.

"Oh, no, I lost some weight, in fact," Andy cuts in, not offended in the slightest. "I cut down on beer so... but honestly!" He turned back to Sherlock. "You just _looked_ at me and told me that... wait, can I also do it?"

"Do what?"

"The thing that you did. If you don't mind? And you, Irene?"

Irene's eyes narrow, but Andy doesn't budge and neither does his enthusiasm.

Sherlock and Irene are both taken aback, "Uh... sure, go ahead."

"Okay!" He rubs his palms excitedly, "I'll start with you then," he nods at Irene, "ladies first..."

Andy peers at Irene intensely, his eyes grazing over every piece of her fabric. It could've been creepy if not for his earnest expression. Within a minute, he gives up with a soft chuckle, "I'm sorry, I can't... but it's terribly exciting watching you do it!"

Sherlock narrows his eyes in suspicion, "You see it! I saw you _see it._ I could practically hear you think it. You don't have to spare her feelings! She knows she's separated; what's the point in tiptoeing around it?"

An awkward beat. Irene simply shakes her head, exhaling in defeat. Sherlock notices Andy's uncomfortable slouch and realises he shouldn't have said that. The server, a young man in early twenties, chooses that very moment to pop in with a bright smile and a notepad.

"Hi, I'm Damian. What can I get you today?"

Sherlock and Andy both watch Irene cautiously, waiting for her move. After what seems like an eternity, Irene looks up, her face stoic as ever.

"A vodka martini for me, please."

* * *

Camera cuts to a pissed-off Irene in a booth far away from Sherlock and Andy. Behind her in the background, Sherlock and Andy seem to really take to each other, the latter unnaturally charmed by Sherlock, eating from the same plate. Sherlock has eased out of his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Andy keeps giggling and pointing to his phone.

"I brought Sherlock here so he could... open his mouth. Just my luck that Andy here seems to think Sherlock is delightful."

She turns back, viewing their friendly camaraderie with distaste, "And now, I'm _this_ close to cracking."

She holds up her thumb and index finger in a pinch.

_"This_ close."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to one IT Crowd punchline (if you were able to spot it!)


	9. The Client: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is on a mission—to stop Irene from sabotaging the sales meeting that could keep the employees of Ferndale safe from redundancies. Meanwhile, Philip turns to his own dark secret in order to act on the secrets of another.

Camera cuts to Irene, Sherlock and Andy in TGI Fridays. It’s now lunchtime. There are a couple of junk food plates and several margarita glasses on their table. Sherlock’s is full, having learnt his lesson the last time he got drunk on sales calls, while Irene’s and Andy’s are either empty or on the verge of emptying. Whatever camaraderie was established between Sherlock and Andy has now reduced to one-sided attempts by Andy. Fortunately, the latter is too happy to notice Sherlock’s sulks.

“Sure, the White Pages is a safe job,” Andy munches on the chips, dipping them in copious amounts of ketchup. “Pays good money, but it’s boring. Little meetings like these,” he leans forward to grab both Sherlock and Irene by the shoulder, “are the only fun thing about the job. What about you two? Are you two... _satisfied_ with your jobs?”

Sherlock frowns in disbelief as if asking himself what tedious hell he has got himself into.

“I think,” Irene flashes a conspiratorial smirk, “Sherlock would have some sort of comment on that, won’t you, Sherlock?”

“God, yes. Sherlock, say something, mate! Why have gone so quiet all of a second?”

Sherlock shoots murderous glares at both of them, “You use the word ‘mate’ a lot, Andy. You dread your middle-aged, middle-class existence, so you overcompensate for it by trying to sound young and cool, so you don’t succumb to the midlife crisis grappling you at the moment.”

Andy sobers up a bit, but not enough to take offence at Sherlock’s words.

“And you,” Irene stabs Sherlock’s arm with a finger, “give long-winded explanations about trivial details in other people, so they get mortified enough to not turn their attention onto the mess that is you,” she simpers coolly, and Sherlock’s mouth falls wide open in indignation. “Do take a day off for once, dear... Sorry about that, Andy. You know how troublesome direct reports are.”

“Oh,” Andy peers at her, “you’re his boss?”

“Yes, he works _under_ me.”

“Mr Lowe,” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the crude innuendo, “we will be _terribly_ upset with ourselves if we wasted the whole day without talking about business. So Holmes & Holmes can provide a level of personal service to the—”

“To answer your question, Andy,” Irene interrupts him, “yes, I am more or less satisfied with my job. It can be challenging at times,” she glances at Sherlock meaningfully, “but it’s rewarding. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than H&H.” 

“Is that so?”

Sherlock’s wry comment makes her lean away from Andy and towards him with an arched eyebrow, “Oh, you have some insight about it, _Junior?”_

Sherlock smirks as if she’s just given herself away, “I’m starting to.”

“Hang on,” Andy hiccups, “I think I need to use the loo.”

He slides off his end of the booth, and as soon as he’s gone, Sherlock grabs Irene’s wrist, pinning it against the table with a _bang._

“Stop it! I know what you’re doing!”

“Do you?”

“You’re trying to botch this sale up!”

“Oh? And why would I do that?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. All I know is I’m going to beat you at your own game.”

She throws him a sceptical smirk, “Are you, Junior?”

“Stop calling me ‘Junior’!”

Irene grabs the hand Sherlock has used to pin her wrist and swiftly flips it within the blink of an eye, “Why? Big brother’s shadow too big for you?”

Sherlock winces as his wrist hits the table, jagged edges of his wristwatch cutting into his flesh. They glare at each other like two hostile prima donna finalists in a reality show. Sherlock, however, is the first to disengage, face triumphant.

“You tell me.”

Irene drops the aggression just as Andy returns, in his trademark lively and oblivious style, “Sorry I was gone for so long. What’d I miss?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in a booth away from Irene and Andy. He’s worn his suit jacket back, and his relaxed manner has evaporated. The tables have turned; where it began with Andy enraptured by Sherlock, it has now transformed into Irene listening to Andy’s dull stories with rapt attention. Sherlock does not look pleased with the developments.

“Irene is deliberately sabotaging this meeting! She deliberately moved the location of the meeting from Radisson to this frivolous restaurant. She is deliberately peppering Andy with small talk and flattery, so we never get around to talking business. And she keeps distracting me by hitting on me! And she’s pretty determined about it, both the sabotaging and the flirting. I don’t know why and I don’t like not knowing why. I’m sure it has something to do with Mycroft. You see, when someone is familiar with Mycroft and also happens to be behaving irrationally, you must always assume that Mycroft was the culprit.”

Sherlock points at himself with his thumbs, “Case in point.”

He turns to peer at them, throwing them his best-annoyed glare. But Andy seems far too enthralled with Irene to notice.

“I suppose it’s not that hard to impress that doofus,” the disappointment in Sherlock’s tone is evident. “Anyway, I’ve done what John told me to do with our clients: I told Andy I’m unrelated to the company founders because it apparently intimidates clients. I don’t see why, since they get intimidated anyway. But John told me to; hence I do it...”

At the mention of John’s name, Sherlock seems to remember something and shoves his hand in his pocket, trying to check his phone. And lets out a disappointed sigh.

“But now, I’m just going to be myself. I’ll let this charade run its course and then swoop in with the deal. By then, Andy will be too charmed to reject any offer I throw at him, and hopefully, I’ll have got Irene drunk enough to keep her from interfering. I’ll beat that woman at her own game.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the H&H Ferndale office. Come lunchtime, the focus that had been present in the morning in the absence of Sherlock’s shenanigans has dissipated. Philip Anderson’s typing speed has come down from ninety to seventy-five words per minute. John reads an article on his computer while consuming post-lunch yoghurt. As opposed to asking Molly to do her faxes and copies, Mrs Hudson waits for the documents to finish printing while chatting with Molly.

“You still on the lookout for the tenants for your classmate’s flat then, dear?”

“We did have a couple look at it last weekend,” Molly nods, looking around aimlessly. “They didn’t go for it. They needed a baby-proofed flat.”

“That’s just as well. I had tenants a few years ago that had a newborn baby. There was vomit all over my carpet! Wreaked havoc on my plumbing! And the husband was a silly, spoilt, young piecan! My advice? Bachelors are the best tenants. They often keep to themselves, are timely with the payments, and usually don’t have any complaints.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Mrs Hudson smiles, fiddling with a strand of Molly’s long hair in a matronly manner, “And how are your studies, dear? Your second year just started, no?”

“Yes. Will be out of here by 2009, if I get a decent nursing job.”

“Oh, you definitely will, don’t you worry about that! You’re smart and hard-working.”

Molly looks down at her lap, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I just... well, I hope I get a job here. Don’t want to go back to Swindon.”

“London has grown on you, hasn’t it?”

“It really has. Hope I can bring mummy out here too. She’s all alone there.”

“You should bring her to my house for Christmas. We’ll play rummy, drink some stout. Oh, but only if she doesn’t get me into poker!” she chuckles. “I have a bit of a gambling problem. Two years ago, I got into this high-stakes game of craps. I am somewhat of an expert, well, I thought I was—”

“That’s impossible, Martha!”

Camera pans to Philip, who’d been eavesdropping on their conversation without even looking up, “You can’t be an expert on craps. It’s a game of chance, not skill!”

“Not true,” John pipes in, pointing his plastic spoon at Mrs Hudson. “I always win at craps.”

Philip’s expression is exasperated, “Oh, really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“How would you do that?”

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Mind control?”

Philip chuckles, “You can’t be serious.”

John simply stares at him wordlessly, pokerfaced. Philip grows wary, back straightening in attention, “Like Magneto?”

“Ever since I was five, I could control things with my mind,” John sighs, eyes solemn, as if confiding a lifelong secret, “like make something shake, or make things fall off the counter. Just little things.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Philip scoffs, rolling his eyes. He raises his voice so that he is audible to everybody. “Attention in the office, please. John is about to prove his telekinetic powers, and he needs absolute silence!” He sneers, “John, why don’t you move that coat rack by the reception?”

The other employees, still in their post-lunch slump, peer around at their desk clump to see what the commotion is all about. Mrs Hudson, right next to the coat rack, looks at John with amazement as he exhales resignedly.

“Okay, I’ll try.”

John raises his right hand to shoulder level and waves his fingers as if trying to manipulate the coat rack into moving. Sure enough, it falls to the ground with a loud _splat._ Shocked gasps ensue around the office as Molly and Mrs Hudson both look at John with awe. Camera pans to Philip, whose jaw hangs open in quiet astonishment.

“Oh. My. God.”

“See,” John throws him an indulgent smile, picking up his half-eaten yoghurt, “Told you.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room, her face red from laughing.

“Yeah, alright, I kicked the coat rack. I was the closest to it after all. But did you see Philip’s face?”

* * *

Camera cuts to a triumphant John in the conference room.

“When you have a science-fiction fan in the office with an X-Men desktop wallpaper, you can be sure he’ll fall for that... Yeah, of course, it was Mrs Hudson from behind the reception podium! But she set the scene so beautifully...”

Camera pans to the right of John’s shoulder. From outside the conference room, Philip Anderson watches John, apprehension palpable on his squiggly eyebrows.

“Although, in full fairness, pranks are more fun with Sherlock... Where is Sherlock, anyway? He’s been gone for four hours now! I thought he’d be back before lunch...”

John looks down at his lap, scratching the back of his neck absentmindedly. But something seems to cheer him up as he looks up at the camera with a little bit of glint in his eyes.

“What if I never tell Philip the truth? Well, I _am_ going to tell him eventually, but first I’ll enjoy the little things he does to figure out how I made that coat rack fall. If he _does_ figure it out, you can have my next paycheque.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room. He’s still reeling from John’s telekinetic powers.

“I don’t believe that John moved that coat rack. But if he did, he has an obligation to use his gift wisely. With great power comes great responsibility. They could do a cross-section of his brain to find out more. Again, I don’t think it’s true, though...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock, Irene and Andy’s booth in TGI Fridays. The number of margarita glasses has increased. It’s three pm now, and Irene listens to Andy’s droning with rapt attention. Sherlock is nearly asleep against the keel of his palm.

“... So, you know, my old boss told me that I should let them know if I want a promotion, and then they’d have a chat over whether it was time for one. I mean, I hadn’t spoken up for years, and then I find out the only reason I wasn’t getting one was because I had never asked for it. And I wasn’t going to, y’know? So I told him if you think I have to ask for a promotion instead of just letting my work speak for itself, you thought wrong.”

“And you left?”

“I had to, didn’t I?” Andy’s lips curve down as he plays with the straw in his glass absentmindedly. “It was going nowhere. I’d given fifteen years of my life to that company; all I got was one promotion and two raises, and do you know what remains of those years? A tee-shirt and a failed marriage. I don’t speak with my ex-colleagues anymore. I’ve thrown out all the pens, and the planners. A tee-shirt is all that’s remaining.”

He turns to Sherlock, “Oh, and by the way, Sherlock, it is my second marriage, for fairness’ sake.”

Sherlock jerks awake at Andy’s sudden attention, “Oh, I knew that. You missed your sex holiday... sorry, honeymoon, the first time, so to compensate you took an extra long one the second time. Might I warn, though, that the length of one’s sex holiday has no bearing on the quality of the marriage?”

Irene’s usual exasperation at Sherlock’s deductions is absent this time, as she gazes at him with a fond smile before turning back to Andy.

“Is it difficult, having him as your subordinate?”

Irene doesn’t seem to notice that Sherlock has suddenly tensed at Andy’s casual query, as if waiting for her to answer, “Sometimes. But he’s full of surprises.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in a faraway booth from Sherlock and Andy. Her straight raven hair, usually tied up neatly by a clutch, falls loose over her shoulder, one side tucked behind her ear. She doesn’t look as drunk as Sherlock had hoped her to get.

In the background, Sherlock and Andy are both checking their mobile phones.

“No, I stand by my statement. Sherlock _is_ surprising... I’ve known him since he was in uni and he is the most unsociable man I’ve ever met. And yet, from what I observed in office this morning, he has somehow, within two months at a job he couldn’t care less about, managed to make allies: John Watson, Molly, Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade. And it’s very strategic: the HR who can get him out of trouble, the receptionist who knows all the gossip, the loyal army boy, and the company veteran who knows all the ins and outs of H&H.”

Irene assesses Sherlock with a newfound grudging admiration, “Consciously or unconsciously, he did what an experienced manager would to cement his authority in an office: made himself nearly infallible to a coup. He could get away with even murder at Ferndale.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to the trio. Irene now sits between a Sherlock contemplating Irene’s words and a chuckling Andy.

“I’m sure he is. But enough about me, Irene. What about you? How long have you been with Holmes & Holmes?”

“Thirteen years. I started as a sales intern under Mr Holmes. The founder,” she adds after a moment of thought.

“Goodness! So this is your first company?”

“Hopefully, the only one I ever work in.”

“So... you don’t want to leave?”

Irene glances at Sherlock surreptitiously, “I don’t think so. I’ve been with this company for all of my adult life. Mr Holmes mentored me for this position. He sent me to H&H board meetings as his proxy when he got too sick to work.”

“Like an heir?”

Irene’s chuckle is somewhat bitter. “Not an _heir._ It’s not a monarchy. But his elder son did take over as CEO,” her expression falls almost imperceptibly. “I was supposed to be the CFO, but I stayed at GM of Sales instead.”

Andy watches her with commiseration, “You mean he kept you there. Just like my old boss did to me.”

“Not at all, Andy,” she smiles earnestly and if she’s lying, it doesn’t show on her face. “We all decided I should remain more... engaged with the day-to-day operations and the employees. CFO is more of a big-picture position, too abstract for my liking.”

Andy doesn’t look like he’s buying it. Sherlock glances at the camera, rolling his eyes dramatically, and mouthes “bollocks”.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson in the emergency staircase of the office building, pacing in agitation. His crossed arms make him look smaller than he is, and he clutches his mobile phone to his ear as if his life depends on it. We hear it ring briefly over Philip’s collar mic before a woman on the other end of the call picks up.

“Philip?”

“Hi darling,” Philip whispers into the phone, posture uncharacteristically effeminate and voice a nervous high.

“I’m at work, Philip,” the voice on the other side of the phone is cutting, irritated, no-nonsense. He recoils at that, cringing.

“I know, darling... just, I just _really_ needed to hear your voice.”

The sigh sounds exasperated, “I’m busy.”

“Wait, wait, no, Jackie! Please, I really wanted to... I really wanted to ask you something—”

“For the last time, Philip, no! I can’t. I told you I’m not ready for that yet! How many times do I have to—?”

“No, no,” he presses his fingers to his eyes, jaw clenching, “I’m not asking about... _that._ I actually have a problem at work.”

“Ugh, is it your manager again?”

“Sort of, but not exactly...”

“Because if it is, I don’t know what to tell you! My boss is a clot too, but you don’t hear me going on about him after work, do you?”

“Well...”

“Just suck it up and focus on your job, as I do.”

“Just... can you hear me out for a bit, darling?”

“Can’t it wait till I’m home?”

“Well, it is _kind of_ time-sensitive.”

Jackie’s annoyed sigh floats in through the phone, “Okay. Five minutes.”

“First I’ll throw a hypothetical at you... no, no, it’ll be quick, I promise. So, imagine Peter was your boss.”

“Peter?”

Philip’s face falls, “My cousin?”

“Oh yeah. The one in the rehab, right?”

“You really didn’t have to put it like that, Jackie.”

“Sorry. Go on. I have to imagine if Peter was my boss.”

“Yeah. So...”

“So what?”

“So, would you be okay with Peter as your manager?”

Jackie scoffs from the other end of the line, “Is this a trap?”

“No, it’s not!”

“Because it feels like one. Remember that time at your parents’ house when you embarrassed me in front of everybody?”

Philip frowns, his voice almost an irritated screech, “That was completely different!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Philip!”

“Well, how else am I supposed to talk to you if you keep bringing it up even after I apologised multiple times?!”

“Ugh, I can’t take this drama! I have to go. I have a meeting.”

“Jackie, wait—”

The call cuts smoothly, the dial tone signalling the flatlining of the conversation. Philip takes a deep breath and buries his face in his palms in anguish.

* * *

Camera cuts back to the trio at TGI Fridays. The sky outside is darkening, and it’s past six in the evening now. People are starting to trickle into the restaurant, and the neon lights have begun to switch on. Andy’s guards have lowered entirely by now, and he is very close to tearing up.

“I thought she was the love of my life,” Andy shakes his head and, while Sherlock doesn’t seem to give two shits about the entire situation, Irene looks sympathetic. It’s difficult to tell whether her emotion is genuine or not, “The one I’d grow old with. Then she just upped and left. Took the dog with her!”

There’s resentment in Irene’s chuckle, “Oh yes; they do that. They take everything.”

Sherlock turns to the camera furtively and, hiding his face from Andy and Irene with his palms, mouths a silent and desperate “kill me”.

“Right? And you’ve _tried_ to be the nice guy in the relationship, or the nice girl, in your case... You’ve said all the things they complained they didn’t get to hear a couple of months ago. You tell them you’re lost without them. But they still don’t seem to want to do anything with you. It’s almost as if all those years don’t matter!”

“You can’t be the nice guy forever, Andy,” Irene shakes her head and points an emphatic finger at him. “Sometimes, you’ve got to misbehave.”

Andy takes a swig of his drink, “Can I confide in you about something?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I wouldn’t recommend it, no.”

“Never get one dog if you ever get married,” Andy goes on, regardless, “Get two dogs. That way, you have one to keep you company when she leaves... Sorry, Irene, I know you went through a similar thing...”

Irene looks down at her lap as Sherlock’s interest is roused once again, “It’s okay, Andy.”

“At least it was mutual for you, right?”

Irene starts shaking her head, “Sorry, I’m just not comfortable talking about it yet.”

“Oh no, you must,” Sherlock pipes in, bobbing his head like an owl to study the changes in her expression, “it’s said talking can be... cathartic for the soul, or something.”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not talking about my separation from Kate in front of _you_ of all people.”

“Andy just shared his life with you. Social protocol dictates you have to.”

Irene chuckles disbelievingly, “This is cruel. Even for you.”

“Yeah, she said she’s not ready, mate—”

“Shut up!” Sherlock seethes at Andy and turns to Irene, “A few hours ago, you told me I give long-winded explanations about trivial details, so people don’t turn their attention onto me. But isn’t that exactly what you’ve been doing with Andy the whole afternoon?”

A beat passes, after which Irene looks up, exhaling resignedly, “We’d been fighting for a while. She wanted kids, and she knew going into it that I didn’t want any. But I knew she did and I went into it anyway, so...”

She grabs Sherlock’s untouched margarita and downs it in one swift movement. Sherlock looks at her uncertainly, pursing his lips.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock biting his lip in guilt in a faraway booth from Irene and Andy. In the background, dark shadows cover Irene’s inconsolable face as Andy awkwardly sips on his drink. Sherlock looks like he’s trying to come up with something witty to say to the camera but can’t because he’s too ashamed of himself.

“Well, good news is my plan is working. Irene seems to be backing off and concentrating more on the alcohol rather than the meeting. Bad news is... well, I think you can see that for yourselves,” he clears his throat, tone nearly apologetic, “Shouldn’t have got her to spill _that._ Too personal. Not good.” 

He sighs and straightens the fabric of his jacket in one smooth motion and dusts his left shoulder.

“This is it. It’s nearly seven. We’ve been here for ten hours—time to shut this down. As we approach eight o’clock, a relatively sober Andy Lowe will leave the restaurant happy with the deal he’s struck, and I will drive Irene Adler to the office parking lot where she can get her car and go back home. And instead of apologising like a useless buffoon, I will do something I’m even worse at: let her keep her pride and pretend she never revealed details of her separation in front of me.”

We follow Sherlock as he rises from the booth and saunters towards Irene and Andy.

“Let’s move to the bar.”

Andy doesn’t say anything; mutely gets up and wears his jacket sloppily. Sherlock extends a tentative arm towards a downcast Irene who regards it with suspicion before taking it and hauling herself off the booth sofa.

* * *

Irene, Sherlock and Andy have relocated to a circular table in the livelier part of the restaurant, with beer mugs and peanuts. Sherlock’s is barely touched, while Irene’s is already half-empty as she gazes around with a vacant expression in her eyes.

“All your life?”

Sherlock smirks. He’s back in the game, “St James’s, born and raised. Spent my whole life, schooling and uni, in London and I do not intend on moving.”

Andy nods in agreement, relieved for having got out of angsty divorce talk.

“I know London like the back of my hand,” Sherlock munches on the peanuts absentmindedly. “I spent all my life exploring the city. I know the names of every road, I know the weirdest shortcuts, the shade of mud in every street, the colour of the Thames in every dock...”

Andy chuckles, “I’m sure you do, brilliant guy like you.”

Sherlock smiles a genuine, embarrassed smile, “Point is, I know all sorts of ridiculous things about London: all the hospitals we have, the schools, the offices. It’s my first love; it’s my home. No matter where I go, London is what I’ll keep returning to. I’ve always considered myself married to this city.”

Andy keeps agreeing, nodding his head. Even his mug of beer is untouched as if he finds Sherlock more interesting than alcohol.

“Here’s the thing about the nationwide discount suppliers: they won’t care about your needs,” Sherlock holds up the little peanut bowl at Andy’s face level and starts taking out the peanuts one by one. “They come in, and they undercut our prices...”

Irene suddenly catches on to the tangent the conversation is going off to and straightens in attention, but Sherlock kicks her under the table.

“... and they run small fishes like us out of business. And then, once we’re all gone, they jack up the prices. And then, the London White Pages will have no choice but to pay.” He shakes the little bowl, which now contains only one half-peanut, “See, it’s not even the best one, but it’s the only one you have left.”

Andy nods, face grim and brows furrowed, “I know. It’s bad.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It is.”

“It really is.”

There’s a beat in which soft rock music keeps wafting away in the background. Irene opens her mouth to say something, but Sherlock glares at her, just out of Andy’s line of sight, signalling her to keep quiet.

“I don’t know,” a sobered up Andy begins at last, and the combination of hours of heartfelt small talk, good food, alcohol and Sherlockian persistence seems to be weighing on him to change his mind. “I suppose I could give you the contract... but you have to meet me halfway. They’re expecting me to make cuts.”

Sherlock tucks his chin into his chest, “What do you think, Irene? Think we could go lower?”

Irene blinks rapidly, taken by surprise and torn between her initial desire to mess up the deal and not wanting to punish Sherlock’s hours of persistence and the final leap of faith he’s taking for her. Finally, her face breaks into an impressed smile; all signs of inebriation slowly draining away as she turns to Andy.

“Well, corporate’s going to go ballistic, but I’m sure we can.”

Andy’s lips stretch into a delighted grin as he extends an arm in her direction, “We have a deal, then!”

Irene shakes his hand and then he sidesteps the small table to engulf Sherlock’s right arm in an enthusiastic politician’s handshake. Sherlock pats him on the arm awkwardly.

* * *

Camera cuts to the restaurant’s cavernous parking lot. We film Sherlock and Irene from a clandestine distance as they watch Andy’s car shoot out of the lot. The space between them is fraught with electric tension, their shadows stretching and twisting, looming over the other cars. Their footsteps echo, ringing in the air even after they both stop moving. Irene is the first to break the overbearing silence.

“Well, as they say... you may have won this battle, Junior, but I will...”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up in a smug smirk, “You’ve had too much to drink, Ms Adler.”

“Don’t I deserve that?” Irene pouts mock-seriously, her tone wry and self-deprecating. “Nice touch, that, by the way.”

Sherlock frowns in confusion, scanning her face for hints.

“Quote-unquote: ‘I’ve always considered myself married to this city?’”

His laughter is half-suppressed and slightly awkward at the praise, “Well, it’s true.”

The curtain of silence falls upon them once again as they begin to walk together towards Sherlock’s car. He turns up his coat collar and starts to fish for the keys in his pockets, “By the way, I figured out the matter with you, _boss.”_

Irene’s face is expressionless, “Oh, really, Junior?”

“It’s three things, isn’t it?”

Irene comes to a cautious stop, while Sherlock continues marching towards the red Sebring.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock turns around and presses the car key fob. A loud beep echoes in the dark silence between them.

“The three things that made you doubt your entire life. I’ve always wondered what’s so special about the number ‘three’.”

Irene scoffs, “Oh, you think you can see through me, don’t you?”

“I can, actually,” Sherlock stands up straighter, urge to show-off dialled up to a hundred, “You, once my father’s proxy at board meetings and on track for CFO, were kept at GM of Sales by Mycroft instead. He obviously, and correctly, considered you a threat. especially after all the tedious fighting when the board almost voted for you to be the CEO in Mycroft’s place. Sure, I was high the entire time, but I obviously did not imagine all of that, contrary to what Mycroft likes to maintain. But Mycroft was a man, he was cleverer, and daddy groomed him since childhood, so he swayed them all.”

Irene sighs exasperatedly, leaning against Sherlock’s car beside him, “I liked you better as the junkie. You were funnier.”

Undaunted, Sherlock continues, “Which brings me to the second thing: my arrival on the scene and you got déjà vu. One Holmes had already replaced you once. Why not another?”

Irene chuckles tightly, “That’s never going to happen!”

“It’s not, and you felt reassured until the third thing happened: your separation from Norton. That’s where playing by the rules had landed you: a dead-end career under a perpetually threatened arsehole boss, a subordinate who got his job because of nepotism—that’s me by the way, hello—and a failed marriage. So, maybe it was time to misbehave. To be a bad girl. A loose cannon. Like you said to Andy an hour ago: ‘You can’t be the nice guy forever. Sometimes, you’ve got to misbehave’. So, what is your endgame, Ms Adler?”

A smile blooms on Irene’s lips, a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and has no trace of humour in it, “Are you quite finished?”

Sherlock falls silent. He tosses his keys in his palm and throws open the door to his car, sliding in smoothly.

“Don’t bother telling me I’m right. I already know I am, so...”

Irene frowns, “‘So’ what?”

“So get inside! It’s almost eight-thirty. I already have seven texts from my brother asking me why I’m still not home.”

“Probably imagining you doing shoot-ups in a drug den in Camden.”

Sherlock gives her a quick half-smile, “Possibly.”

Irene’s face hardens as if she’s just taken a resolution. She turns around and knocks on the driver seat window. It rolls down to reveal an annoyed Sherlock, “What now, woman?”

“We didn’t talk about you.”

Sherlock glances at her arms folded over the edge of his car window, “Sorry, what?”

She fixes him with an intense gaze, “You. What you did inside was impressive. I like to think that once I’ve set my mind to something, I achieve it by hook or by crook. This is the first time I’ve truly failed.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have got drunk.”

“Despite what you claim, you do care about your job,” she assesses him from head to toe, “This meeting showed that. If not about the whole branch, then at least about the one employee there—you know who I’m talking about.”

Sherlock eyes her warily, resorting to ignore her. Irene’s smirk grows, and she crowds into his personal space, intimidating him with the closeness.

“How long before you begin to care about your employees too?”

“I’m sure I would’ve noticed if I ever did,” Sherlock replies dryly.

Irene grins, “And I’m sure deep down you think there’s no harm in it.”

Sherlock glares up at her, “What makes you think I even function in that manner?”

“Fine, don’t admit it,” she shrugs, “I’m just waiting for your employees to start treating you as their boss for real.”

He frowns in confusion, “They already do.”

Irene lets out a chuckle, “Oh, you might think you’ve got allies, but right now, you’re just a nepotistic stand-in in their eyes. The day you feel asking yourself ‘why even bother’ is the day you’ll have ascended to ‘manager’ status.”

Sherlock arches a wry eyebrow, “And that’s what you think of _your_ subordinates?”

“Hmm, might make an exception for you, Junior. Your charming brother would like that.”

“Oh, I can just imagine how pissed Mycroft would be if you began making “exceptions” for me.”

That makes Irene crack up and laugh loudly, freely, a scene we’ve never witnessed before: Irene and Sherlock chuckling until the latter stops, aware of their proximity. Irene catches the change in his expression, and her laughter dies down too as she realises the implication of his words.

And then, she unthinkingly leans in and kisses him. It’s very light, very chaste, and Sherlock barely kisses back before withdrawing just two seconds in. Irene gulps, the terror at her indiscretion naked in her eyes. Sherlock blinks, tense and uncomfortable. His jaws seem clenched, his face drained of all colour.

“You’re drunk,” he finally manages. “And gay.”

Irene straightens, stepping away from his car.

“Aren’t you too?”

Sherlock merely restarts his car in response. Irene takes the hint and gets in obediently. And just as Sherlock is about to change gears into reverse, she lets out a knowing chuckle.

“You were thinking of someone else, weren’t you?”

“Weren’t _you_ thinking of... Norton too?”

At the mention of Norton’s name, Irene’s face hardens looks away.

“Let me tell you something about John Watson, Sherlock. He will not fight for you, not when it comes to this. They never do. In fact, John will never even admit to it.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but there’s a crack in his otherwise expressionless face as if contemplating her argument.

“He truly believes straight is the only way he can be,” she continues in the same dead, detached drone, “He will fight it even if it stares him right in the face and punches him in the gut.”

“Even if John does admit it,” Sherlock pitches his voice lower and quieter, his voice resigned and uncharacteristically frank, “there’s no point. Nothing will come out of it.”

She arches a challenging eyebrow at him, “Do you really believe that?”

They’re only a few inches apart in the car yet stranded in different worlds: Sherlock watching the car dashboard, and Irene gazing away into nothingness. He seems to be weighing her words but, after an introspective beat, he wipes the trace of her lipstick off his lips, the only evidence that the kiss ever happened.

“I have to go. I’ll drop you back at the office so you can get your car.”

“I don’t think I should drive. Just drop me off at the main road so I can call a taxi.”

“Fine, I’ll just drop you at your flat. It’s on the way.”

“Not my flat, please,” the pain in her voice is audible. “I can’t—not while her things are still there. While _she_ is still there.”

Sherlock looks like he wants to say something cutting but realises that Irene isn’t flirting and playing with him anymore; that she is genuinely in anguish, bitter from her separation from her partner. A gush of affection and protectiveness at her vulnerability softens his face, and he places a comforting but uncertain hand on her shoulder.

“Where have you been staying then?”

Irene replies after a suspicious beat, longer than it takes to tell the truth, “With a friend.”

He catches on to the time it took her to reply and starts his car for a final time with a long exhale, “I’ll put you up in a hotel for the week. You can find a place to stay meanwhile.”

“You don’t have to—”

Sherlock’s voice is softer, “I insist.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the Ferndale Business Park building. It’s eight-thirty in the morning. Philip’s blue car, right on time, speeds into the parking lot and slows down in his everyday spot. Grabbing his takeaway coffee and leather briefcase, he almost whistles his way into the office building, but then he notices it.

Irene’s car is still parked in the parking lot. From yesterday.

He frowns at the camera in confusion and proceeds to take the lift to the second floor. Opens the office door to see that only Molly has arrived.

“Hey, Philip.”

“Is Irene here?”

“Oh, you saw her car outside too?”

Philip gapes at her, “She never returned for her car last night?”

Molly’s eyes go wide and her mouth a big, shocking ‘O’ before a bewildered smile begins to spread on her face, “You don’t think...?”

“No!” Philip takes a beat to consider the possibility. “Could it be that they...?”

“She’s his boss,” Molly begins uncertainly.

“I don’t think he’d care.”

“She’s not... she’s gay, isn’t she—?”

“No, NO!” Philip cuts her off emphatically, “That was just a rumour. Plus, you should be careful before you go accusing people of _that.”_

“It’s not an accusation...”

“Why would she sleep with _him_ of all people?

“Well, he _is_ kind of handsome, isn’t he?”

Philip makes a disgusted face, “Ugh, Molly! Drop your standards much?”

Molly glances at the camera furtively, and Philip takes the hint. Tapping on the podium, he starts to go to his desk before remembering something. He goes to the coat rack and peers at the rod as if checking for any electrical apparatus that could’ve helped John do his trick the previous day. Molly giggles noiselessly but her glee is short-lived as they hear a car pull up downstairs in the parking lot. She darts into Sherlock’s office to peep out the window, Philip in tow.

A taxi pulls up near Irene’s car. It’s Irene, still in the same business suit and white blouse from yesterday. Her hair is damp and untied, falling on her shoulders freely as opposed to the usual tight bun she keeps it tied in. She unlocks her car and briefly looks up at Sherlock’s office window only to spot Philip and Molly looking back at her. With a mutter to herself, she throws her car door open and speeds it out of the lot.

Molly and Philip share a bewildered look before turning to gape at the camera.

* * *

It’s nine-fifteen now, and everybody except Sherlock is in the office. The reception phone rings out loudly amidst the unnatural quiet, a stark contrast from the previous day where everybody had been so busy at work.

“Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly... Oh hello, Mycroft...”

John, already at his desk, hears that and his ears pick up at once.

“... No, he’s not in office yet... Sure, I’ll transfer you.”

John’s phone begins to ring just as Molly puts her handset down. John peers at his ringing phone, surprised, wondering if Mycroft has actually asked to be transferred to his line, and then at Molly, who cements his assumption by arching her eyebrows and pointing her chin towards John’s landline. Uncertainly he picks it up just as she mouths “It’s_ Mycroft”._

“Hello?”

“John?” Mycroft’s voice booms from the other side. “Sherlock did not come home last night. Did you two... go off somewhere?”

John squints, “You’re calling me on my office phone and asking me if we went _off_ somewhere?”

“He’s not picking up my calls, he’s not answering my messages,” a hint of panic creeps into Mycroft’s overbearing tone.

“Why do you think I would know where he is?”

“Did he not tell you anything?”

John presses his fingers to his eyes, “I just know he went on the White Pages sales meeting yesterday. After that, I don’t have a clue...”

John trails off just as he hears footsteps behind him. He wheels around to find Sherlock leaning over at reception with a package in his hand. Sherlock is wearing the same clothes as yesterday, even the same socks. There’s foreboding in John’s expression as he returns to his call as if willing himself not to look so affected. He’s been hearing whispers all morning about where Sherlock had presumably spent his night, and now he can’t deny them.

“Mycroft, he just walked in. You don’t have to worry.”

“John—”

But John, too shaken by the possibility of the rumours being real, cuts Mycroft off mid-call. Flickering beneath the cool exterior, disbelief, shock, and just a tiny bit of rage swims in John’s eyes. He looks at the camera with an air of finality and rises to stomp off towards Sherlock’s office. We follow him to see Sherlock take note of John’s feverish gait and hang his coat behind him just like the previous day. Only this time, it’s not Irene whose state of mind he tries to figure out, it’s John.

“Oh,” the voice is calm, ridiculously calm, “Hello, John—”

“I just got a call from Mycroft.”

The clenching in John’s jaw is visible and very telling. Sherlock doesn’t look at him as he unbuttons his suit jacket and plops down on his chair.

“Oh really?”

John narrows his eyes, not liking the fact that Sherlock’s tone is so casual and deliberate and that he seems to be actively avoiding John’s searching gaze, “He sounded worried.”

Sherlock nods, organising the things on his desk in no particular paradigm, “Maybe I _should_ give him a call.”

John raises a suspicious eyebrow. Sherlock? Calling his brother?

“Asked me why you didn’t get home after your… _meeting…_ yesterday.”

“It’s extension eighteen ninety-five, isn’t it?”

John looks down at his feet grimacing, lips pursed in displeasure because by now he knows Sherlock enough to know how he reacts to a topic he desperately wants to avoid discussing, “Where _were_ you last night?”

Sherlock glances at him, collected but with a slight frown between his eyebrows, before picking up the handset of his landline. John bows his head, arms akimbo, posture demanding and eyes desperate, and licks his unconsciously parted lips, waiting for Sherlock to confirm or deny.

“Hello, Mycroft!” Sherlock’s indulgent drawl reserved only for his brother fills the room, “Yes, I just got here. Never mind that, we got the London White Pages! How exciting for you and your little company, isn’t it?”

Sherlock pretends as if John isn’t there. That is John’s cue to leave him alone, and he does.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, glaring at the camera.

“Nothing happened. And I see no reason to discuss Irene Adler with you. Now, be on your way.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a stunned John in the conference room. He just sits there, lips parted and eyes vacant with shock, as if unable to come in terms with what happened in Sherlock’s office.

He’s not blind. Something has happened, and he knows it. A phone rings in his breast pocket. John fishes it out and looks at the screen.

It’s Sarah. John lets it go to voicemail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of the Irene here as midway between ASiB Irene and ACD Irene. Like ACD Irene, this Irene is initially an innocent woman wronged by a powerful man (the Count, in ACD; Mycroft, in this case), but like ASiB Irene, she went about it in a crooked way. So, as ACD Holmes did, Sherlock here goes about trying to foil her plans but ends up sympathising with her and changing his opinions about her instead. I loved ASiB from a Johnlock perspective but Irene Adler's portrayal as the bad guy never sat right with me so...
> 
> But yeah, even if Irene doesn't beat Sherlock here (and she'll lose every time she does something cooked because crooks don't win in this universe), she will win at the end of the story (not the end of this fic) when she does things the 'right' way, rest assured.


	10. Safety in the Workplace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Anderson's black eye because he "walked into a door", Greg tries to do a 'Safety in the Workplace' presentation.
> 
> Too bad Sherlock hijacks it because it's boring and a lot of things go horribly wrong as a result.

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock in the latter’s office, with both men huddled together into an awkward corner around the landline. The woman on the speakerphone is outraged, an ominous edge creeping into her voice.

“This is simply unacceptable! We’ve been your customer for five years now, and _this_ is how you treat your clients?! _We_ will not have this...”

Sherlock lets out an inaudible hiss, and John—squeezed into a tight corner between Sherlock and the wall as he monitors the progression of the conversation—groans in discomfort. But neither bothers to clear any space. At times, John’s wrist brushes carelessly against Sherlock’s arm when he scribbles into his notepad for Sherlock’s sake, his way of salvaging the conversation away from an angry customer complaint to a sales call.

The woman on the phone finally ends her tirade.

“... Sure, Karen,” Sherlock almost heaves a long-suffering sigh, his best attempt at behaving nicely under John’s watchful tutelage, “I understand—”

“No, sir, _you_ understand nothing!” Karen launches away once again, and Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration, “You charge more per ream than Office Depot! The only reason we stayed with you is because of the customer service! And, after it was _your_ fault, your salesman screams obscenities at us instead of offering us a refund! What kind of business are you running up there?!”

John purses his lips, bowing his head apologetically. Sherlock throws John a dirty look as if asking _what the hell have you brought me at nine in the morning._

“To be fair, ma’am, John only said ‘shut up, Karen’. There were no obscenities involved.”

John inhales sharply, turns over a leaf of his notepad and scribbles ‘_Just apologise’._

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

“I’m not great at small talk. Apparently, the key is to ask questions and show genuine interest in the answers but who has genuine interest on tap?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, wide-eyed, tired, and massaging the bridge of his nose in an unconscious attempt to hide his face in embarrassment. After a long silence, he clears his throat and stretches his fingers at his knees.

“Yes, I shouted at a client today... I know it’s unacceptable. I’ve been working on controlling my temper since I returned to London. Then I met Philip Anderson, who gives me _excellent_ practice,” he smiles murderously, tone thick with sarcasm. “Then Sherlock turned up, and I started to slip up... what’s that? Oh, you’ve been monitoring that?”

John smile grows ominously. “Yeah sure, I’d _love_ to see every time I slammed the phone too hard when Philip irked me, or the time when I shouted at Sherlock for nearly taking away our health insurance! Why wouldn’t I love to see that?”

A tense, scary beat follows and fills the conference room. We edge a bit away from John, whose face softens as he notices our trepidation.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” his face reddens, “I’ve been a little worked-up these past few weeks. Anyway, today, Mrs Filipelli’s order got delivered wrong. So, I offered free shipping on the re-order and asked her to hold off on using the delivered product. Turns out, some of their staff had already used some of it, so they were willing to send back the unused stock for a full refund.

“Now, this order was already given at a discount, and I was already offering them free shipping, but they still wanted a full refund. I started negotiating for at least a re-order so I wouldn’t lose my commission. But she got angry and started shouting and I just... I lost my rag, and I shouted back... And nearly damaged my landline phone.”

John purses his lips, crossing his arms defensively, “Then she asked to speak to my manager. But... my manager is Sherlock, so...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Sherlock in Sherlock’s office. It’s quarter to ten, but John’s client is still yapping about; however, the edge in her voice over the speakerphone has worn off. A strange mixture of Sherlockian charming-awkwardness and John’s written guidance seems to have salvaged the situation.

“... Oh, and don’t get me started on those French beaches! They should give us a hint before going _au naturel_, shouldn’t they?”

John and Sherlock exchange exasperated looks as she keeps going on with no regard for the time or for their subject of discussion. John’s list of acceptable topics of small talk for damage control—_family, dogs, Princess Di, football, just apologise, don’t show off, holidays_—he’d started for Sherlock’s sake lies useless over the landline phone. They seem to have drifted from the topic of ‘holidays’.

“And going there with your brothers—God no. The speedo stayed on, but the secrets came out!”

John lets out a silent groan at the mental image. Sherlock, however, takes a final stab at improving the rapidly regressing quality of conversation.

“Brother? I’ve got a brother too; he works...”

John’s mood lifts at this welcome break from beach talk and begins scribbling: ‘_Not CEO.’_

“... in the cabinet office.”

John exhales a sigh of relief at his lame attempt.

“Oh, wow, really?” The client’s surprised voice comes out. “Must be important then.”

John jabs at the sheet where _‘don’t show off’_ is scribbled. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Uh… nothing big. Minor position. Minor position in the government.”

“Oh, okay.”

John begins scribbling again: _Doesn’t like her brothers. Relate to her._

“He’s... uh, rubbish,” Sherlock tries. “Insufferable prat, to be honest.”

There’s a chuckle from the other end, “Hah! That’s brothers for you!”

John scribbles again: _Ask her what her brothers do._

“W-what does your brother do? Brothers do, I mean...”

“One works in the city. He’s a twat,” she laughs shortly, and Sherlock returns it indulgently. “The other doesn’t do much.”

“Why? Is he a prat like my brother too?”

“Uh no, not _like_ your brother, I hope,” her relaxed manner wanes. “He’s been fighting leukaemia for the past two years.”

John shakes his head. He knows the conversation is going to go downhill with Sherlock’s people skills. He jabs at _‘just apologise’,_ but Sherlock really goes the whole way.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. My gran died of cancer too…”

There’s awkward silence on the other side of the line. John groans, burying his face in his palms. His shoulders droop in surrender: he knows what’s coming.

“So hopefully your brother… won’t…”

John seethes _‘just shut up, now’._

After an awkward beat, John’s client stammers, tone incredulous, “Are you really the manager—?!” But she never manages to finish as John cuts the call abruptly, letting out a defeated exhale. Sherlock turns to peer at John in confusion as the latter straightens his back, popping his elbow joints.

“Did we just...?”

“Yes, Sherlock. We lost that client.”

“Okay.”

John massages his neck as he leans uncomfortably against a filing cabinet. “You gran didn’t really die of cancer, did she?”

“Of course not! You told me to apologise and relate to her.”

Despite the situation, John lets out an incredulous laugh at Sherlock’s earnest declaration. “How the hell did you even manage the White Pages?”

Sherlock licks his lips tentatively, gazing at John’s amusement with aching fondness, “Well, I did have some incentive.”

“Oh, right! Of course, _of course_... you had... _incentive...”_

Sherlock’s explanation overlaps with John’s spoken comprehension, “Yes, because, you know...”

“Yes, YES, of course... _she_ was there... and you... and her, I get it...”

“The stakes were sky-high, and if I didn’t get that sale, our branch would be... wait, what?”

However, all of Sherlock’s nervous glances and John’s stiff nods disappear into the thick atmosphere between them. John is the first to look away, only to see Philip Anderson and Molly Hooper trudging towards the reception together. Molly has an awkward arm around Philip’s shoulder, tiptoeing to reach around him. Philip, head bowed and clutching at his leather briefcase, tries his best to hide his face.

From Accounting, Sally’s eyes widen in horror. She almost paces up to reception before she notices the camera and comes to an abrupt stop, torn between going to Philip and pretending their relationship doesn’t exist. John, on the other hand, straightens up and marches out to inspect the commotion with Sherlock in tow.

“Philip?” A worried Mrs Hudson approaches him first. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Philip grunts, hiding the right side of his face as John walks up to him, trying to take a peek. “John, can go _back_ to your desk and not make a scene for once?”

“You alright, Philip?”

Molly shakes her head at John’s inquiry, biting her lower lip.

“Philip, I’m asking nicely.” This time John uses his Captain Watson voice, making Sherlock smirk behind him. Philip meets John’s eyes guiltily and turns his cheek the other way. The entire office gasps collectively and begins throwing concerned questions, horrified exclamations and sympathetic murmurs in their direction.

The temple of Philip’s forehead is bandaged, evidence of a badly split-open wound, and he sports a hideous, very purple-coloured black eye.

“Christ, Philip! What happened?”

Molly begins to answer for him, but Philip overrides her, “I... walked into the door.”

John crosses his arms and raises a suspicious eyebrow, “You walked into a door?!”

“Yes.”

“Which door?”

“The first one.”

Sherlock chuckles in disbelief. “The _first_ one?! Did you get a concussion too?”

John tuts at his terrible bedside manner.

“I was there,” Molly gulps, “took him to the hospital. That’s why we were late.”

Greg finally reaches the reception, arms akimbo, “You saw it happen, Molly?”

Wide-eyed, biting her lip, Molly nods mutely.

“This happened on company property?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Philip, whenever you’re ready, please drop by my desk. I might have to record this. You too, Molly. You’re a witness.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room. He looks weirdly excited.

“I don’t want to sound like a mean bastard, but this is a blessing. Hardly anything ever happens here... which is a good thing,” Greg backpedals quickly, “But now... I can get one of those Health & Safety Incident Report forms, the yellow ones. Our branch has never had a real thing before... Bracknell had an employee going into cardiac arrest two years back, and nothing exciting has happened since...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg’s desk, who is scribbling into a yellow form. Sitting next to him, Philip fiddles with his fingers and Molly keeps trying to read Greg’s incident report.

“Okay!” Greg sets his pen down. “Thank you, Molly, for your account. Philip, hold on to your hospital bills. Since this is technically a work-related injury, you’re entitled to compensation.”

Philip nods mutely, eyes darting away from Greg to steal a glance at Molly.

* * *

“Come in!”

The door to Sherlock’s office creaks open, revealing Greg in the doorway, a manila folder in his hand, “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated sigh, “Oh God, spare me! Can’t you just go on and do whatever it is without bothering me for once?”

“Afraid not,” Greg slides into the office and sits down from across Sherlock, “since I’m sure you’re not aware of this.”

“Not aware of what?”

“We’ve started the fourth quarter, and every quarter we do an SMS meeting. SMS stands for Safety Management Review... no sorry, I think it is Safety Management Systems... That doesn’t sound right either.”

Sherlock looks at him murderously, “Just get on with it!”

Greg shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s usually a fifteen-minute presentation followed by an hour-long discussion on an unsafe scenario given to the branches for analysis by corporate, and how we can take basic steps to keep ourselves safe. For example, this quarter, we’re given ‘evacuation during fire in the office’, so that’s what we’ll have to discuss. We also look into any safety issues or incidents the employees may have encountered in the workplace, so ipso facto, we have to discuss how to avoid accidents like Philip Anderson’s.”

Sherlock snorts, “You mean how not to get beat up by little punks?”

Greg frowns, “He didn’t get beat up! He walked into a door.”

“Oh, so you want to discuss how to _not_ walk into a door?”

Greg assesses Sherlock for a moment before deciding to dismiss his comments as sarcastic and insensitive. “Anyway, Ian is the safety officer, so he’s supposed to chair these meetings, but he never bothers so I usually type out a brief report saying we _did_ discuss it... Well, Ed and I would try and discuss it, and ‘we’ and ‘I’ are interchangeable, right?”

Sherlock peers at him, “You’ve lost my interest with your rambling. Just go ahead and do whatever you have to; I really don’t care.”

“It’s part of compliance.”

“Fuck compliance!”

“Sherlock!” Greg all but barks, brandishing the folder in his hand at Sherlock. “You have to do this! You’re the manager.”

“Sorry, can’t be bothered! Got more important things to do,” shaking his head desperately, he grabs the handset of his landline. “Molly, messages for me, quick, quick, quick!”

And before Sherlock can even react, Greg smoothly presses the speakerphone button so that Molly’s voice fills the entire office and Sherlock can’t trick him anymore, “Uh... nothing for today, Sherlock.”

Sherlock throws Greg an annoyed look. “Really? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Greg tosses the folder onto Sherlock’s desk, grinning triumphantly.

“At least sit in the meeting, and just read aloud the stuff given there so that I can write a decent report.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room. Greg writes on a whiteboard next to a box television set, while the employees are seated in four rows of chairs: Philip, Mrs Hudson and Billy in the first, Sally, Ian and Henry on the second, John and Sherlock in the last row. Molly, sitting in a separate row against the eastern wall of the conference room, keeps stealing glimpses of John and Sherlock whispering and throwing each other smirks in the last row.

Occasionally, John will throw a sincere and questioning glance towards Greg, an occasional nod, just to show he is listening to Greg’s safety seminar. Sherlock can’t be even bothered to pretend.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly outside the conference room, arms crossed, agitated.

“You were right! There is something fishy going on between those two! But... didn’t Sherlock and Irene...?”

She turns to glance at John and Sherlock still in Greg’s safety seminar, only to turn back to the camera, giddy with excitement.

“Oh God, they’re gay for each other, aren’t they? Oh sorry, did that come out wrong...? Yes, they’re probably the only gay people I know, but they should be together.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to the conference room. At this point, Greg is mostly fed up with the presentation, and it shows in his slouched shoulders and tired grimace.

“Sherlock?”

John elbows Sherlock in the ribs, eliciting a barely-suppressed pained groan from the latter, “What?”

Putting his arms on his hips, Greg jerks his head in a ‘_come here’_ motion. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he reluctantly drags his feet to the front of the room along with the folder Greg had given him before. Opening the folder, he begins in a droning tone.

“Basics of workplace safety: one thing to take care of is carpal tunnel syndrome. It’s recommended you take a ten-minute break from typing every hour. For your circulation, you must get up from your chairs and move around about ten minutes every hour. A particular concern for office workers is a sedentary lifestyle, which can contribute to heart disease...” Sherlock groans. “What the hell...?”

“Just keep reading,” an annoyed Greg seethes, but Sherlock turns to him and tosses the folder on the floor.

“No! I’m not going to read through stupid, boring things like carpal tunnels and—”

“Sherlock...” Greg begins warningly.

“No, if I _have _to do a safety seminar, it will be proper and relevant to the branch. No one’s going to die of a heart attack here! I’ll tell you how people here will die: John will be poisoned, Mrs Hudson will be hit by a car while she crosses the road listening to music on her headphones.”

“I don’t do that!” Mrs Hudson cries out.

“Why would I be poisoned?!”

“Your ex-wife’s new boyfriend will kill you, and yes, she’s moved on. Molly will be murdered during a mugging. Sally... well, Sally will live, but balance of probability says she’ll commit suicide, just like Philip. Speaking of which, Philip did not hit a door, use your brains for once! He got beat up while coming in for work! You want to know how I know? There are nail scratches and imprints on his so-called door injury, but you lot are too blind to see what’s staring you right in the face!

“So if you want to truly do a safety seminar instead of writing a tedious report to corporate and shirking off your responsibility, I suggest you tackle these issues by taking a self-defence class instead!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone. He opens his desk drawer, which contains lighter fluid, a kitchen blowtorch, a small hammer and a pack of _Pall Mall_ cigarettes. Smirking, he takes them out, stuffing them in his inside breast pocket of his jacket.

Daggers are being glared into Sherlock’s back as he saunters out of his office: Sally, Greg, Mrs Hudson, and all the other deaths he’s predicted. Sherlock ignores the looks and marches on and away, out of the H&H office floor. Peeks into the office premises to see if anybody is following him, and kneels onto the floor. He takes out the key to the Ferndale branch office and twists it, hammering till it distorts and sticks into place. Pulls out the blow torch, lighting it, and begins heating the door handle with a blue flame.

“Today, Lestrade tried to do a safety seminar for the employees. It involved reading from a folder and watching a ten-minute video on evacuating the office during a fire. Predictably, nobody paid attention.”

Smirking, Sherlock stuffs the hammer and the torch back inside and stands up straight. We follow Sherlock down the building and up through the emergency staircase towards the second exit door of H&H Ferndale.

He brandishes a few wooden chips, roughly the size of the gap between the door and the carpeted floor. Scanning around for any loiterers, he slips into the office floor and hammers the wooden chips in, jamming the door, and proceeds to heat the door handle.

“It was tedious, it was boring and, I will bet all of Mycroft’s money, not one of them remembers what to do in case of a fire. Because what Lestrade will never understand is that ordinary people can only learn through one teacher: experience.”

He gathers all his things and walks onward, speaking into the camera as he struts on. He reaches the last emergency exit out of H&H near the stationery inventory cupboard and lights a cigarette, drinking in the smoke deeply and sniffing the rest with an intoxicated smile.

“Today, smoking is going to save lives.”

He pours the lighter fluid into a dustbin full of paper, throws the lit cigarette into it. Watches the sudden eruption of flames with a smug grin as he empties the rest of the lighter fluid into it and closes the door behind him.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg’s desk. Philip and Molly look guiltier than before.

Greg licks his lips testily, tapping his pen on the desk. “So, you two want to tell me what _actually_ happened?”

“Well,” Molly begins, “I was on my way to work today morning and I, well... there were these—”

“Men!” Philip interrupts a little loudly, “there were some men. Grown, tall men.”

Molly frowns in confusion but begins nodding in earnest, “Yes, and they were trying to... they held a knife and wanted me to hand over my purse. And then Philip came, and he fought them off...”

“Right, I did,” Philip stretches his lips in an indulgent smile. “Actually, there were only two men, so it wasn’t _that_ hard to fight them off.”

“My God!” Greg exclaims, shocked. “Why didn’t you say that before?! Why would you say you “ran into a door”?”

Philip looks away. “Uh...”

“Because he... wanted the workers’ comp?” Molly tries, but Philip glares daggers at her. She gives him a meaningful look, “Okay, fine. I think Philip didn’t say because he didn’t want to admit he’d been beaten up by—”

“A gang of men, yes,” Philip hastily interjects with a nervous laugh. “I wanted the workers’ comp, just like she said I did.”

“You said it was _two_ men.”

“What are you, the police?”

Greg straightens in his chair, figure filling out with pride, “In a way. I’m a police volunteer. So you should file a complaint about it down at the station.”

“No, thank you,” Philip’s expression sours. “I’ll bear these scars with grace like a gentleman.”

“Anyone smell anything smokey?”

The trio flips their heads up to see Sherlock’s gangly but imposing figure suddenly overshadowing them. All of them shoot him nasty looks. “No, go away.”

“Now, and I’m sorry I have to ask this,” Greg massages his temples awkwardly, “but it _is_ my job, so... did any of this happen on company property?”

Molly shakes her head. So does Philip. Sherlock rolls his eyes and bolts out of there.

“Right, then,” Greg crumbles the yellow incident form into a ball and tosses it into the dustbin, “that’s the end of it.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a disappointed Greg, now alone at his desk.

“I just wanted to fill out those yellow forms for once in my career!”

* * *

Camera cuts to a fidgeting Sherlock in his office. He does not look happy.

“Been,” he checks his wristwatch, “two minutes and thirty-five seconds since I set things in motion. Why is nobody noticing the smoke?!”

Sherlock springs from his seat, waving his arms around in frustration as he marches out of his office, “Right then, I’m going to be the catalyst for the entire...”

We follow him outside the office and pan towards the door next to the stationary inventory cupboard. Smoke is billowing through the door, but no one seems to pay any attention. The fingers keep tying, the copiers keep printing, and the pages keep rustling—the office keeps turning on the wheels of business.

Sherlock begins strategically loitering around John’s desk, walking past, peeping into his computer and touching things on his desk, trying to get his attention. John, for his part, clenches his fists and tries not to react, at least not until Sherlock addresses him like a proper adult.

“Oh, dear!”

Mrs Hudson, whose seat faces the source of the smoke, is the first to cry out loudly instead, brandishing a fearful finger towards the clouds of smoke now entering the air vent. Everybody in the office turns around at her exclamation and joins in the chorus, “Fire!”

Sally, Greg, Molly, all rush from their seats in panic to get a better look.

Sherlock smirks at the camera, “Oh, fire? Goodness! What’s the procedure?”

John’s eyes widen in fear, and his face falls as he hears no tone coming from his landline, “The phones are dead.” But his calm, rational voice is drowned by Philip’s shrieking, “Oh my god!”

“The phones are dead?” Sherlock winks at the camera. “How did that happen?”

“FIRE! Help!!”

“It’s a fire! What’s the procedure, everyone?”

“Stay calm!” John pushes Sherlock behind him, away from the smoke, and stomps towards the source only to be stopped in tracks by Sherlock’s roar.

“John, no, wait! What’s the procedure?”

“Stop saying _procedure!”_ John roars back, his face red and spit almost flying in projectile.

“The fire’s out in the annex!”

“No, Sally, we don’t know that. The smoke could be coming through the air duct!”

“THE FIRE’S OUT THERE!! Everybody run!”

“I just said it wasn’t—”

However, all of Sherlock’s exclamations fall on deaf ears as Mrs Hudson starts fleeing towards the H&H main door. Chaotic footfalls ensue as the rest of the employees follow her, alarmed voices in different pitches fusing into one big panicky mess.

“Wait, wait, wait, WAIT!” Sherlock rushes after them screaming as Greg is just about to grab the door handle, “No, no, NO, LESTRADE!! Touch the handle first! Touch the handle, and if it’s hot, there could be a fire in the lobby!”

Greg reaches out for the door handle hesitantly, “It’s warm.”

“Oh my God!”

Groaning chatter occurs from everybody and Sherlock nearly gets head-butted by a stampede of his employees, “Not a viable option, then. What next?”

“Don’t run—”

“DON’T PANIC!!”

“Let’s try another door,” John rushes to the emergency exit door, followed by Mrs Hudson and Billy. The smoke from the stationery inventory has now filled most of the office in opaque wisps, suffocating the employees with an odour as stale as sewage.

“Oh! Here’s a door,” Sherlock barks. “Check that one out. How’s the handle?”

John touches the door handle softly only to yank back his hand, “Jesus Christ, it’s warm!”

“Well, uh, another option, then. Come on, everyone, what’s the procedure? Use your minds!”

“Oh dear, we’re all dying!”

“Stay calm, Mrs Hudson,” John grabs her hand and rushes towards the annex despite Mrs Hudson protests as everybody else follows with cries of “Fire, fire!” and “I’m not dying here”. Sally grabs Philip’s hand as they scamper away with the rest.

Sherlock has now grabbed a megaphone, “Okay! Settle down, everyone. No bunching! Stay below the smoke line—!”

“No, John, I forgot my purse...”

“Mrs Hudson, leave the purse!”

“Get out of the way! Go, go, GO!!”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, listen to John!” Sherlock’s voice booms through the megaphone, “Things can be replaced! People, human lives, however, can…”

He looks petulantly towards the camera as everybody runs away from him without heeding his instructions.

Molly grabs one handle and yelps back with a cry, “Ah! My hand! That’s hot!”

“Aah! This one’s hot too!”

Billy takes off his jacket and loosens his tie, “Okay, we’re trapped! EVERYONE FOR HIMSELF!”

“No—”

“Out of my way!”

“Let’s go! GET OUT OF MY WAY!!”

The employees begin to dash back towards the main H&H office, pushing past Sherlock, nearly knocking him to the ground. The megaphone tumbles away as he groans in pain, “Calm, please...”

John, doing the double duty of running and keeping Mrs Hudson from conjuring doomsday scenarios, stops short over Sherlock’s fallen figure and pulls him up by the wrist. In the midst of all the chaos, he attempts a smile at John but John—calm, resolute, ready-for-action John Watson—simply grabs Sherlock’s hand with his free arm to lead him to rescue.

“Sherlock, come on!”

“Procedure, procedure, everybody!” Sherlock keeps yelling at the distressed employees now coughing, teary-eyed with the smoke assaulting their senses, “Have you ever seen a burn victim?”

He shakes off John’s hand, who doesn’t notice as Greg nearly crashes into them, “Exit options, everybody! Where do we go, everybody? Wha—Use _what_ to cover the mouth? A rag! A damp rag, perhaps!”

“SHERLOCK!” John’s voice calls out, a hint of panic now creeping into it. “WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Philip, recovering from the tackle, jumps onto his desk and straightens to push apart the false ceiling of the office, revealing the dark air ducts. Sally climbs onto the desk and takes off her shoes.

“Come on, monkey, I’ll hoist you! Grab onto the ledge and pull yourself up by your elbows!” Without warning, he grabs Sally’s waist and pushes her towards the air ducts. Sally grabs onto it and drags herself out of sight into the darkness.

“Let’s remember those procedures,” Sherlock keeps yelling uselessly. “What are the options?”

Sherlock ducks in an ungainly manner as Billy pushes past him.

“Okay, that’s the wrong way. We’ve already tried that! Remember your exit points. Exit points, everyone!”

Sally turns and holds out her arms so that Philip can climb in after her, but Philip refuses, “Go and get help!”

“I’M GOING TO DIE!”

“I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”

“You won’t if you follow my instructions!” Sherlock gesticulates petulantly.

In the conference room, Ian grabs a chair and throws it into the conference room window, which refuses to break. In Accounting, Billy heaves a fax machine and hauls it into another window, which manages to crack. Thundering footfalls, ear-splitting crashes and people shrieking ‘help’ and ‘save us’: it is utter jungle madness.

“What do we do?!”

“Good question, Molly!” Sherlock roars, “Use the surge of fear and adrenaline to sharpen your decision-making!”

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS GOING ON?!”

There’s a deafening crash; Billy has finally managed to crack open one of the windows by tossing the fax machine through it. He leans out of it and howls at the top of his voice, calling for help.

“HELP! I just got out of university!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Emergency calls, anyone? 999?”

Billy’s trick gives John an idea who, along with Greg, begins to dislodge the copier machine from the grey carpeting with a yell of “Yes! Yes, ba—Yes, battering ram! Battering ram!”

“Help! HELP!!”

Sherlock pulls the fire alarm, but the employees have already lost their wits in the smoke and the smell and the crying and the screaming and the chaos. Sally’s leg crashes through the ceiling with a shrill scream. Greg and John successfully wheel the copier into the jammed emergency exit door, but the crash only serves to heighten the alarm.

“I’m about to die!”

“EVERYBODY!” Sherlock’s voice booms through the megaphone, now thrice as loud as everyone. “Attention everyone! Employees of Holmes & Holmes!”

All employees finally turn to Sherlock.

“This has been a test of our emergency preparedness, and you have failed spectacularly!”

“WHAT?!”

“Fire not real. This was only a simulation, a training exercise. An extension of Lestrade’s safety seminar.”

Sally drops down from the ceiling onto Philip’s desk, “Seriously?!”

“So,” Sherlock claps his hands together, “what have we learned?”

Mrs Hudson faints and drops to the floor, her face very white.

* * *

“How could you possibly think it was a good idea?!”

We are in the corporate counterpart of the conference room in the H&H headquarters in the city. It is sleek, shiny, with skyscrapers scattered outside the windows—a far cry from the lacklustre furniture and fluorescent ambience of the Ferndale branch. Herman Miller chairs, lavender fragrance, ornamental tea set plus kettle, oak table, sleek lamps, decorative lights, it’s a completely different world meant to intimidate and yet ensnare the senses of any visitor.

On one side of the table are Mycroft, Irene and the Law and Compliance head of H&H, glaring down at their subordinates. On other side of the table are Sherlock and Greg, the guilty party, one unabashed and another fatigued.

“A lot of ideas were not appreciated in their time, Mycroft.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft smiles indulgently. “Pray tell.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically, “Could’ve done this over email.”

“Oh, we would have if we could have. This is a very serious offence.”

“No, you just like to see me march my arse down here, don’t you?”

“Sherlock,” Irene begins with a hint of an amused smirk, “Did you do this on purpose? Perhaps out of... frustration?”

Sherlock throws her the darkest frown he’s capable of.

“Did you shout ‘fire!’,” the legal head begins testily, trying hard to dodge Sherlock’s glare, “causing a panic?”

“Yes, I shouted ‘fire!’,” Sherlock gesticulates angrily at her. “I shouted many things! I also shouted instructions on how to get out of the building, so you can imagine _my_ frustration as the manager when nobody would take heed of _my_ instructions!”

“Because they thought they were dying!” Mycroft slams the table with his fist.

“Well, that’s not on me, is it, Mycroft?!”

“You could have burned down the whole building, for God’s sake!”

“It was a controlled fire! Have I ever actually let anything be burned by any of the fires I’ve started?!”

“You burnt my report cards!”

“Because you didn’t need them anymore!”

“Gents, gents!” Greg squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder placatingly and extends the other arm in a livid Mycroft’s direction, “I agree what happened was panic-inducing and mad, but to be fair, no one _actually_ got hurt.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” the legal head exclaims. “Martha Hudson nearly had a stroke.”

“She just felt asphyxiated from the smoke!”

Greg’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder tightens as if saying _shut up and let me handle your screw-up. _Sherlock backs down meekly.

“Anne,” Greg begins gently, “I have talked to Martha Hudson. She will return to work in a couple of days and has no intention of bringing any charges against Sherlock, or against H&H. I’ll be organising mental health sessions if anyone wants to talk about it, sort of mini therapy for those who are still frazzled by the incident. So far, I’ve spoken to seven employees in the branch and none of them have any plans to quit or sue. Now let’s talk company property damages.”

* * *

“Just a latte for me, thanks,” Greg begins to take cash out of his wallet at the H&H cafeteria on the ground floor but is stopped in his tracks by a whisper of “don’t worry about that.”

Greg turns around to see Mycroft smile politely at him and turn to the barista, “An espresso, no sugar, for me and a latte for the gentleman.”

“Coming right up, Mr Holmes.”

As the barista walks away, Greg pockets his wallet with a tentative smile, which quickly fades as Greg looks down at his shoes. The two men stand in silence, waiting for their respective beverages. Until—

“What are you getting out of this?”

Greg whips his head up, “Excuse me?”

The barista comes back with their drinks, “An espresso, no sugar, and a latte.”

“Thank you, Hugh,” Mycroft turns to Greg and cocks his head towards a corner table near the window. “Join me?”

Greg frowns, narrowing his eyes as he ponders over Mycroft’s invitation. “I... have to get back.”

“It’s nearly five.”

“Uh...” Greg shrugs, “fine, I suppose.”

Mycroft smiles and extends one arm in the direction, “After you.”

Greg clambers onto the high chairs while Mycroft slips into them effortlessly as if he’s used to sitting in them. Greg lets out a short laugh.

“Been here seven years and still can’t climb onto these damn chairs!”

Mycroft stretches his lips in a sympathetic smile, “So?”

“So?”

“You know Sherlock crossed the line yesterday at Ferndale.”

“Sort of, yes.”

“So, why would you defend him so vigorously? What are you playing at?”

Greg takes a sip of his coffee and wipes away the little cream moustache casually. Mycroft watches him warily.

“What d’you mean?”

“What Sherlock has done was cause enough to fire him. Even I couldn’t have stopped it, not today, not in front of Anne.”

Greg nods wordlessly, his rate of gulping down the hot coffee increasing alarmingly. Mycroft clears his throat.

“You know he’s not a good manager. Yesterday he started a pretend-fire; tomorrow he might start a real one. Then why would you go to such lengths to defend him?”

Greg sets down his empty cup and assesses Mycroft, his red tie and gold tie pin, the navy blue suit and the reddish auburn tuft of hair, “I don’t know. Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Defend him; he’s your brother.”

Mycroft chuckles incredulously, “Doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any consequences.”

“Right.” He nods emphatically. Mycroft lets out a tired sigh.

“I also... wanted to thank you, Gregory.”

“For what?”

“For being so professional in front of Anne today. I’m sure divorce is difficult... and it’s still raw—”

Greg holds up a finger, “That’s okay. We’re all professionals. We don’t bring our fights to the workplace.”

Mycroft chuckles, “Unlike me and Sherlock, you mean?”

“No, see, that’s the very thing!” Greg throws up his hands in frustration. “I don’t mean anything. You keep looking for hidden meanings, you keep looking for any games you think we’re playing, you’re so used to seeing through crooked people that you just can’t understand when there’s nothing to see through!”

Taken aback, Mycroft begins to backtrack, “I... apologise if I’ve offended you in some way.”

“No, no, it’s—I’m sorry, I had no right to speak to you in that manner.”

“No, it’s... fine. If we could’ve had anybody but Anne up there... I’ll admit that I’d have ensured it, but I hope you understand. She’s the company’s chief legal counsel. She had to sit in.”

Greg looks at him incredulously, at how foreign and unrehearsed Mycroft sounds. “You really would have?”

Mycroft simply purses his lips, gazing away at the trees in the courtyard, at falling dry leaves abandoned by the autumn. Greg watches him for several moments, and the background chatter reduces to white noise, before he joins Mycroft in silent observation.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the emergency staircase, arms crossed in indignation. Philip doesn’t face her directly, choosing a more non-confrontational stance.

“I’d do this myself, you know,” she hisses, “If I were assured of the results.”

Philip shakes his head, “He’s a dick but I still believe we haven’t given him a proper go at the branch—”

_“A proper go?!” _Sally scoffs, "He set fire to the office! His past criminal record attests to that! What else are you waiting for him to do: run a bulldozer through the building?”

Philip's watch beeps, and he begins to walk away from her, “Break’s over. Gotta go back to work... FYI, I still think you’re overreacting.”

Sally stares after his retreating figure, jaw hung open in outrage before her phone distracts her and she stalks after him, back into the office.

* * *

Camera cuts to H&H Ferndale office conference room. The whiteboard behind John says ‘Self Defence’. All employees, particularly Philip Anderson, seem to be very into John’s volunteer session. Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on the sides, seems to be enjoying the view.

“Self-defence is not a fun boxing match, okay? It’s about running with your life.”

“Yes,” Philip bends forward in his seat, “but let’s say the attacker is smaller than you? Significantly smaller, but many in number, like a swarm of bees.”

Molly looks pointedly at the camera. John frowns. “That’s highly unlikely.”

“Yeah, but what if?”

“Well, the most common scenario is a larger man attacking a smaller female, like what happened with Molly... so, three words: Strike, Scream, Run. Let’s try it, yeah?”

Sherlock can barely keep his composure, “So all I have to do is strike you, scream and then run?”

John purses his lips with a barely-contained smirk, clenching his fists into an attack position, “_If_ you can strike.”

Sherlock rubs his hands together in glee as most of the employees let out an excited ‘ooh’ at John’s challenging tone. Possibly because everybody is keen to see Sherlock get beat up by John. Greg, however, tries to step in.

“I don’t think this would be appropriate in the workplace—”

But Sherlock shushes Greg away. “Game on, Watson.”

John smirks as Sherlock squares up fists in front of his chest, bending slightly at the knees, “It’s Captain Watson, _newb.”_

With a snort, Sherlock charges at John, but John sidesteps him easily, swinging one leg around the back of Sherlock’s knee by using surprise to his advantage. Instantly, Sherlock falls flat on his back with one arm trapped beneath his own body and John’s knees parted around his waist pinning the other arm. Sherlock lets out a surprised yelp as everybody in the conference room jumps back in fear and shock. John grins smugly, restraining Sherlock in place with both arms, nose to nose with Sherlock as both men pant in unison with the sudden exertion.

Molly looks at the camera with incredulity, jaw hanging open in scandalous surprise.

“Couldn’t even strike. Shame.”

Unable to fight against John’s strong grip, Sherlock whispers back in a husky voice, smirking, “You cheated.”

“Says the man who was sizing up my bad shoulder.”

“Caught that, huh?”

“You _might_ want to remember that I was a soldier, Sherlock.”

“Excuse me?”

The entire office whips up towards the conference room door at the tentative, feminine voice. It’s a woman, a mother, and her pink-faced, indignant, teenage son dressed in a football jersey and a cap, barely adolescent. Colour drains from Philip Anderson’s face.

“Forgive me for interrupting. I believe my son had an altercation with somebody here...?”

She trails off, dumbfounded at John and Sherlock’s interlocked figures on the floor and then up at the whiteboard which says ‘Self Defence’. The teenager raises one pudgy, accusatory finger towards Philip, “That’s him. The man I hit. And that girl,” he points at Molly.

John immediately frees Sherlock from his grip and scrambles to his feet, “What?!”

Snorting into the back of his palm, Sherlock props himself up by his elbows. A nonplussed Sally straightens in her seat and gapes at Philip, who tries to hide in his chair, making himself smaller out of shame when he sees Sherlock laugh at him silently. An incredulous Greg peers from the kid to Philip and Molly.

“Right,” the mother drags her kid by the elbow. “Apologise, please.”

The teenager stomps up to Philip, who reflexively recoils at the sound, still traumatised from the experience, “I’m sorry me and my friends kicked your tight little arse in front of your lame girlfriend.”

“Hey!” John barks, “If you’re not going to mean it—”

“What?” The teen makes an indignant face at him. “What’re you going to do about it, _faggy?”_

John clenches his fists as if he wants to box the kid’s ears but the boy’s mother rises to the occasion, “Kevin! Apologise!” She turns to John with a helpless smile, “I’m so sorry, sir. I just... Kevin, say you’re sorry!”

“Sorry,” the kid looks up at John sulkily.

* * *

Camera cuts to H&H parking lot. We see Philip Anderson sitting in his car, still as a statue, just staring ahead, catatonic, a diminished husk of a man. It’s past six pm. He’s been sitting in the same pose for the last hour.

From the Ferndale Business Park building, we see Sally notice Philip’s car still in the lot. She strides up to him and knocks on the passenger side window. As if suddenly woken from a reverie, Philip looks at her for a while as if he doesn’t know who she is. Shakes his head and blinks his eyes to clear himself into action, then bends sideways to open the door for her. She slides in, watching him with sympathy.

“Hey.”

Philip doesn’t answer, hiding his face from her. She extends one arm to take his hand but he retracts his hand away before she can touch. Sally draws her hand back and they sit in tense silence for a while.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about, y’know?” Sally tentatively brushes his hair with one finger. “Had you not been there, Molly could’ve been seriously injured. You did a good thing.”

Still no answer from Philip. Sally sighs deeply.

“And that kid was a mean bully.”

She fiddles with the music system in his car, tuning the radio till ‘Kokomo’ by Beach Boys comes up mid-song, playing softly between them and filling the space between them with a calm cheer. Sally starts humming to the tune for the entire time Philip spends hiding his face from her, looking out his window until she sees his leg tapping in rhythm with the beat. He smiles tentatively at her, making her beam and lean forward. He plants a quick kiss on her cheek and nuzzles their foreheads together, breathing her in deeply.

“I really wish he’d called John ‘faggy’ one more time.”

Sally snorts against his nose, “John would’ve punched that little brat.”

“I suppose the mother saw through that.”

They stay like that, just seeking comfort in each other’s presence till the song’s ending fades away. As the jockey begins his drone, Philip turns off the radio, “You were right, y’know.”

“About?”

“About Sherlock. I had these stupid doubts, all these hypothetical conflicts. And now, he’s literally set fire to the office... Sorry, it was a ‘test of our emergency preparedness’. God, the nerve of that man, laughing at _me!_ Oh, I’m going to teach him a lesson. He thinks he’s a big, tough man, eh? Can handle those neighbourhood bullies throwing rocks and punches? _I’ll_ show him!”

Sally smiles at him, relieved that he’s finally come around to her way of thinking, “I know. So, what are you going to do about it?”

Philip inhales deeply, covering Sally’s hand with his own, “I’m going to go to Irene, take his job. Just because they’re sleeping together doesn’t mean she’s going to let this incident slide. Not even Mycroft can do anything. Not in this case.”

Sally squeezes his hand, “Good.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg still working at his desk in the H&H office. It’s six-thirty, but he’s busy working. Everybody else has left.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I stuck up for Sherlock at headquarters that day. I mean, no one blames the kid when they draw on the wall—they blame the adult for giving him a crayon and leaving him unsupervised. I’m the adult who left Sherlock with a crayon, so...”

He shrugs, gesturing at his desk, which is now full of several coloured forms: yellow for Health & Safety Incident form, green for Near Miss report, pink for Accident Report and white for general report.”

“I just wanted to fill out those yellow forms for once in my career... Turns out one should be careful of what they wish for.”


	11. Coup d'état: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fed up with Sherlock's antics, Philip, with Sally's support, decides to act against Sherlock with the information he has on him.

“As you can imagine, all of us, especially the sales and the supplier relations staff, are expected to minimise travel-related expenses,” Sally turns to the H&H Ferndale employees in the conference room while explaining a Travel & Expense policy diagram, all black runes and rectangles on the poorly wiped whiteboard. “This includes appropriate communication with your manager—”

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock, in his usual place in the conference room—in the last row with John next to him—puts on his fakest grin as the employees instinctively turn to glance at him, “I’m sure Accounting can take care of it all!”

“No,” Sally rolls her eyes, arms akimbo, “all business travel approval requests _must_ come through Sherlock first, who will then forward it for my approval _before the 10th of each month,”_ she looks at him pointedly. “Is that clear, Sherlock? Before the 10th of each month, with same signatures on all forms, or else the employees—_your_ employees—will have to pay the penalty dues.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Sally throws a dirty look at Sherlock’s cavalier exclamation. “I’m sure everyone has gone through the recent memo from head office about cutting down on non-essential business travel. Therefore, every Travel Approval Form must contain proper justification as to why the trip is necessary—and why other means such as e-meetings and teleconference calls cannot accomplish the trip objective and how the potential benefits of the trip justify the expense. So, the ‘why’ and the ‘how’...”

Beside Sherlock, John struggles to keep his eyes open, propping his head up with his fingers.

“God, this is boring.”

Sherlock smirks lazily beside John. “I know. Kill me.”

“Why do we have these Travel & Expense policy refreshers every quarter?”

_”Every quarter?!”_

“Yeah,” John yawns widely, biting on his tongue when he notices Sally’s murderous expression. “Sally insists these should be held every month.”

Sherlock buries his face in his palms with a silent groan, “Kill me.”

“... Please remember: employees are not permitted to make reservations directly with the hotel,” Sally continues with a scathing look in Martha Hudson’s direction as if to say _‘this is for you’._ “You must book through the designated travel agency so booking can be made at H&H’s already-negotiated rates...”

John lets out a tired exhale. “God, I’m sleepy.”

“I agree; this is boring and unnecessary.”

“No,” John presses his fingers to his eyes, “it’s just... I had a late one last night.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, taken aback. He steals a glimpse of John’s hair, the tiny exposed strip of skin between his hairline and the collar of his shirt, and down at his clothes. There’s a faint, very suggestive red welt on the patch of skin under John’s right earlobe. Sherlock glances at the camera, gut-punched.

“That’s my part of the chair, thank you.” He promptly elbows John’s arm out of the armrest they had been sharing. John frowns at him, only to be overtaken by a fresh bout of yawning.

“... Also, from the 1st of January 2008,” Sally peers at a binder left open on the table beside her, “we’re rolling out new corporate credit cards for your use. H&H has decided to phase out per-diems for the time being until the economy takes a turn, so any expenses must be paid out of your corporate credit card. This step will streamline expense reports submission, increase accountability and...”

John rests his elbow stubbornly over Sherlock’s arm, invading the shared armrest, “That’s it, I’m taking a nap. Cover for me.”

And before Sherlock can protest, John rests one head on his palm and promptly dozes off. Torn between wanting to punish John for the fidelity he doesn’t owe him, not wanting to sell out his friend and having to endure the rest of the boring expense policy lecture by himself, Sherlock’s lips purse in frustration. Till he glances down at their arms touching over the thin fabrics of their shirt sleeves. Sherlock glances sideways at John and gulps, leaning in ever so slightly into his touch with a clenched jaw. Sherlock lets out a soft exhale and withdraws his arm, his facial expression morphing into something resembling regret as if he has just taken advantage of John.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock alone in his office, tense fingers interlaced.

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s totally fine. John is in a healthy, satisfying relationship with a woman. Good for him, I suppose. Good for him... Apparently, we’re friends so... and-and I’m in... something as well. Not a “relationship”, obviously,” Sherlock clarifies quickly, grimacing as if he can’t even fathom tying himself down to a person. “Wait, why am I even talking to you about romantic liaisons? Go away!”

* * *

We cut back to Sally in the conference room.

“... I hope it goes without saying that apart from the standard hotel, flights, petrol or car rental expenses and business dinners, no other expenses will be disbursed as per H&H policy. Your corporate credit cards must not be used for personal expenses, apart from your daily meals which, on the road, will be covered up to £50 per day. Now let’s discuss...”

However, Sherlock’s conflicted expression dissolves in a few moments as a napping John slowly slides off the support of his arm into Sherlock’s left shoulder. He adjusts his head for a better angle and sighs happily when he finds it.

Sherlock freezes. He quickly glances at the rows of employees before him and at Sally, who has her back turned to them as she writes something on the whiteboard. No one has seen John napping on his shoulder. Yet.

He inhales and exhales as inconspicuously as he can, stays as still as he can so that John’s nap is not disturbed. Glances at his ash-blond hair and lets a small, pleased smile creep on his lips. Closes his eyes as if relishing the feeling of John’s sleepy exhales on his shoulder, the rhythms of his breathing and his pulse that transfer to him through the single point of contact...

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock lets out a hiss at the sudden interruption to his precious chain of thoughts. John is napping and he must not wake him, so he turns his head slowly towards Sally who towers over the two of them like a headmistress over the school’s two troublemakers. The conference room is empty, Sherlock belatedly realises as he glances at his watch. He’s been in that state for the last twenty minutes. Twenty minutes through the most boring policy seminar in the world have passed in a blur because John Watson, through no fault of his own, decided to treat Sherlock’s shoulder as a pillow.

“Sally.”

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. In your office.”

Sherlock indicates to John still snoozing. Sally frowns.

“He’s sleeping.”

Sally taps a foot in impatience; she’s already tired from the meeting and can’t be bothered to pamper her manager. “So wake him up. Or should I?”

Sherlock looks at her with utmost loathing. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She nods, throwing the two of them a queer look before sauntering out the conference room. Sherlock turns to John, torn between letting him sleep on his shoulder and his loathing for inactivity. He reaches out with a tentative hand but withdraws it before he’s about to shake him. Blinks and rethinks his strategy, thumbs twiddling. Watches around him awkwardly, and out the conference room door where everybody has gone back to work, their backs to them. He glances at the camera awkwardly and back to John’s head. He retracts his shoulder a bit.

“Uh... hey.”

John’s eyes crack open at Sherlock’s tentative whisper. He looks up at Sherlock and down at the spot where his head rested. Sherlock attempts an awkward smile, and John returns it shyly as he jerks up, straightening his tie.

“Oh shit, sorry.”

“No, no, it’s... fine.”

“Right.”

John chuckles, flattening his hair, as he rises to his feet and leaves without another look at Sherlock.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally and Sherlock seated in his office. Sally’s arms are crossed defensively from across Sherlock while he reads a bunch of memos with barely-contained lack of interest.

“Why do we even have to submit expenses?”

Sally scoffs at his endless complaining. “How else would we keep track of things during an audit?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I thought it just... happened...”

“I told you, business meals have to be expensed in their respective billing cycle,” Sally points at the piece of paper he’s holding, “so you’re already late.”

Sherlock props his face against his palm, “That’s never a problem.”

“Yes, it is. It incurs late fees. I even said it in today’s seminar—which was for _your_ education more than the others, by the way—but you were busy canoodling with John back there in the middle of the workday.”

Sherlock glares at her casual tone. “Oh, really, Sally? Am I the _only_ one “canoodling” in the middle of the workday?”

Sally shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Let me point out what else is wrong with what you’re asking me to do. First, this is a huge TGI Fridays bill, which is not approved by H&H. Radisson is, and that venue was changed.”

“That wasn’t me, that was Irene.”

“Second: when you’re on a business dinner, as per policy, the senior-most employee must foot the bill. In this case, it should have been Irene. But _you_ chose to pay, which was, again, wrong.”

“She was... incapacitated,” Sherlock growls through clenched teeth.

“Which brings me to my third point: most of the amount is for alcohol. Firstly, meals and alcohol are expensed separately. Secondly, there were only you and Irene from H&H, so this is an abnormally huge bill, and it will not pass under the radar. H&H policy limits business meals to a certain amount, crossing which wanders into bribery territory. Do you see it? You’re asking me to approve borderline bribery because that is exactly how you bagged this client!”

“Calm down,” Sherlock begins carefully, “we can—”

“No, I am _not_ calming down!” Sally bellows. “I can’t approve this! And even if I could, I would not because it is wrong on so many fronts! You _have_ to go through both Finance AND Compliance to get this approved. Or you can settle it out of your pocket because I’m _certainly_ not going to let H&H take liability for _your_ crookedness!”

“Oh, I need ‘approval’?” Sherlock digs into his desk drawer and produces a sheet of paper. “Here, I do have an approval letter; just need to date it.”

He scribbles something on it and hands it to Sally, who takes one look at it and rolls her eyes.

“This just says ‘I can do what I want’.”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirks, “I’m the manager of this branch; therefore, in this branch, I can do what I want.”

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. Not in these cases,” Sally takes a deep breath to calm herself. “An organization has audits and quality & regulatory standards for a reason. It keeps us honest. It keeps us accountable. You can’t just say ‘fuck you’ to Compliance and the HR all the time, Sherlock; the world would be a mess if everyone was like you!”

Sherlock tosses away the memos petulantly; they land in an un-arranged heap on Sally’s lap. “You won’t understand, limited as your imagination is. Alcohol was crucial to getting the deal.”

Sally scowls darkly, “Which is all the more reason for worry. And what would it say about your imagination that you had to use alcohol to convince a client to give us their business?!”

Sherlock chooses not to comment on her assumption of the amount of hard work and perseverance and convincing the White Pages sales meeting had taken that day, sticking to his guns instead. But the indignation is evident in his eyes and his flaring nostrils.

“I am returning these receipts. H&H will not bear the cost of your unsavoury tactics,” Sally pushes the memos and the chits away back to Sherlock, who lets out a groan.

“Ugh! I get the job done, and yet _I_ never get what I want!”

Sally peers at him incredulously. “YOU ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT! You wanted to play Cluedo; we played Cluedo! You wanted to waste our time volunteering at the Met; you successfully wasted our time volunteering—”

“No, NO! I actually intended to volunteer—”

Sally brandishes an angry, accusing finger at Sherlock, rising from her chair. “You set fire to the office because—”

“It was just smoke! The amount of conflagration was much less, I saw to that!”

“Oh, you’d know that, won’t you?” She sneers, her lip curling in disgust. “Budding little junkie arsonist that you were?”

Sherlock blinks, his face falling almost imperceptibly at being called ‘junkie arsonist’. Even if Sherlock is not typically the sort to be affected by opinions, being judged on one’s worst mistakes certainly can’t be a pleasant experience.

Outside Sherlock’s office, peoples’ ears begin perking up at the raised voices. Philip looks alarmed at Sally’s outburst.

“Yeah, everybody knows it,” she continues, “So you don’t have to act all high and mighty about it! Behind all those shiny suits and well-pressed shirts, we all know what you really are! And being the manager isn’t going to change that!”

Sherlock’s face hardens at ‘manager’. He grabs the armrests of his chair and hoists himself up loftily, cold fury emanating from him in waves. Clenching his jaw, he buttons his suit jacket, looking down his nose at a fuming Sally, her hands balled into aggressive fists.

“Get out of my office!”

Sally storms out, but not before throwing a snide look back at him from the doorway.

“As long as it is your office.”

And the office door clicks shut neatly.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, his face contorted into a scowl desperately trying to mask how hurt he is.

“She’s not wrong. All of this...” he points to the White Pages sales forms, a symbol of his little attempts to save the branch the best way he can, “it’s not going to change my past, is it? Doesn’t suddenly make me worthy of some sort of applause, does it?”

He lets out a resigned sigh, fashioning his expression into one of apathy. “Can’t seem to do anything right, so why even bother?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the emergency staircase, looking agitated. Philip approaches from the lower rungs, checking for any onlookers, and reaches Sally. She leans in to kiss him, but he stops her with a gentle push to her shoulder, shaking his head.

“What were you even thinking, monkey?”

She places her arms on Philip’s shoulders. “I had to get it out of my system!”

“So you threaten Sherlock with his job the day I scheduled that meeting with Irene? Come on, you’re smarter than that.”

“You don’t know what he’s making me do, Pip! He has no right to order me to do something that is absolutely unethical... Ugh, I don’t... anyway, when are you going?”

“During my lunch break.”

“Yeah, but it’ll take more than your lunch break, won’t it?”

Philip dips his head, considering it. “I’ll tell Sherlock I have a dentist appointment. I don’t think he’d care.”

“No, no, he can tell if you lie to him, probably look at your shoes or something... you need to come up with something better. Something you already have scheduled.”

“Uh yeah... I _do_ have a dentist appointment scheduled. I made sure John heard me make the appointment over the phone, so he’s my alibi. And Sherlock’s definitely going to believe him, isn’t he?”

Sally’s eyes widen in surprise, her lips stretching in an impressed smile. “Wow, that’s... you seem totally prepared.”

“I am.”

“Want to run some lines by me? How you’re going to present your case in front of her?”

Philip nods earnestly, “Just the drugs thing, and now we’ve got a pretty strong case against him.”

“You know you can’t go completely personal against him in front of her.”

“Right.”

“Just neutral, objective statements and focus more on how you can be a better manager than Sherlock, what you would do differently to would help the branch.”

“Yeah.”

“Bring up your sales numbers, if that helps.”

“Yeah, I have a copy of that, and my last two performance assessment reports.”

Sally beams with pride, straightening Philip’s tie and adjusting his glasses. “In that case, all I can say is good luck.”

Philip rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. “I don’t need luck.”

“Because you already have me?”

“Precisely.” And he leans in to capture her lips in a gentle kiss.

* * *

“You’ve got to be careful, y’know.”

John sits from across Sherlock in his office: Sherlock, whose fingers are threaded in his curls, pulling at them as if out of frustration.

“How can this day go any slower?”

John shakes his head. “You do realise Sally Donovan openly undermined you, in front of everyone in the office?”

“Who cares?”

“You deserve to be treated with respect, Sherlock!” John squints at him, unwilling to believe how indifferent Sherlock is acting about the incident. Sherlock raises his head, scowling at John.

“I love how you dwell on such small misgivings.”

“Oh, you’d know better, won’t you, considering how important small details are to you?”

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. “You think your military code is the answer to everything. Someone toes the line, so you have them court-martialed—”

John purses his lips in disagreement. “Nope, I just don’t think she should be able to talk to you that way in the office and get away with it.”

“Why?”

John lets out an incredulous chuckle. “Because... you’re her manager.”

“Her list of complaints seems perfectly valid to me. Anybody in her position would complain about the “fire” or the “nepotism” or the dru—other things...”

John lets out a scoff, “Come on, Sherlock.”

“And-and... You’ve shouted at me multiple times!” Sherlock’s sharp words put a muzzle on a topic he doesn’t want to discuss, “So how are _you_ any different?”

Hurt flashes across John’s features as Sherlock assesses him severely. John deflates a little with a self-pitying chuckle. He shakes his head and doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Right. How am I any different?”

It’s only when John begins to walk out of Sherlock’s office that Sherlock begins to belatedly realise he may have inadvertently compared John’s concern with Sally’s animosity.

“That’s not what I—”

John attempts a placating smile at Sherlock’s desk, “I have to... finish that report on, uh... talk to you later, boss.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, the corner of his lips downturned in disappointment.

“It’s like... Sherlock sees everything, everyone clearly, except himself,” he lets out an incredulous chuckle, “He can accurately perceive anyone from their clothes but has zero awareness about how he is perceived by everybody else. He’s basically telling people that it’s okay to treat him that way and I just... I don’t know how he can... just accept terrible behaviour from others without protest.”

John grinds his teeth in agitation.

“Well, looks like he won’t take me seriously, so might as well get back to... well, not sure what. Look at that,” he emits a low laugh, “Got so wound up over telling Sherlock what to do that I haven’t even started work.”

* * *

“Mr Anderson? Irene’s ready for you.”

Philip, in his best grey suit, gives the receptionist at H&H headquarters an acknowledging nod. With his khaki overcoat and his brown leather briefcase secured, he saunters into the corporate office, marching in till he encounters a glass door with the label of ‘Irene Adler. General Manager, Sales Department’. He lets out a breath to gather his courage and knocks on the door.

“Yeah?”

Philip pokes his head in to see Irene’s head buried in a binder, “Good afternoon, Irene.”

“Philip, come in,” she doesn’t bother to look up, “Have a seat.”

Irene’s office is smaller than Mycroft’s, but her room isn’t as minimalistic as his and, being a corner office, the view of the city is lovelier than his. Same iMac desktop as Mycroft’s, but an older version. Her desk is messier: papers strewn everywhere, pens without caps, folders are open in random places in the office, and it is full of filing cabinets. It’s obvious just how workaholic she is.

There’s a small plant in the right-hand side where her high heels lay abandoned. In another corner, an armchair has quite a few of her fancy work clothes carelessly strewn. A lot of random things that should belong in a house and not the office are present: packs of medicines, shoe boxes, dressing mirror, expensive moisturiser, a couple of trolley bags. Philip frowns subtly at the camera and mouths ‘_does she live here?’_

“You have to excuse the state of my office. This is round the year, not a personal grudge against you.”

Philip chuckles. “Of course not. I know you’re very busy so I’m glad you could take some time for me.”

She smiles in return as Philip finds the only seat-able chair. “So, jumping right to it: how may I help you? And what can I possibly do for you that Sherlock can’t?”

Philip purses his lips. “Well, it _is_ about Sherlock.”

Irene stops in her tracks and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “What has he done now?”

“After the fire incident? Well... just today, he threw a tantrum at the accountant for not approving his expense reports.”

“Why?”

“Because they were above a certain limit set by the Compliance department.”

Irene assesses him intensely, the vehemence of it disproportionate to the soft blue of her eyes. She finally sets down the binder she was reading from and walks to her desk, settling down into her chair in a feline manner. Philip glances down at her naked feet, without shoes and clears his throat uncomfortably. She notices his discomfort almost immediately and smirks.

“Yes, I suppose this is rather gauche, but my choice of footwear, however pretty, is rather uncomfortable, as you can see.”

“Uh...”

“You do realise the expense report you’re referring to was first approved by his manager, which would be me, before going to the Accounting department? So, in this case, you’re calling not just Sherlock out, but me as well?”

Philip gulps audibly. He clearly hadn’t realised that.

“But I definitely applaud your initiative, Philip. It takes a brave man to go against his manager, and you must feel very strongly to speak with me this way, behind Sherlock’s back.”

Philip squeezes his knee to steady himself, this being the most important sales pitch of his life. “I do. I believe I can run the branch much better than Sherlock can and keep it from closing.”

Irene crosses her arms and leans back into her chair. “How?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious? I have a strong work ethic, as opposed to Sherlock, who simply uses the employees as an outlet for his boredom and frustration. With targeted redundancies, restructuring and cutting down on non-discretionary spending, I believe I can turn in a significant profit margin. And let’s be real. Sherlock has never held a real job before this, let alone real management experience.

“I, on the other hand, have been with H&H for ten years. I know the nooks and crannies of the Ferndale branch. I know how much manpower goes wasted in the branch, especially with distractions such as Sherlock playing Cluedo or him making us visit the police station.”

Irene tucks her chin into her chest silently. She seems to be turning Philip’s impassioned speech over and over in her mind. She fingers a cap-less pen and glances at Philip, her face severe.

“Well, Philip, I meant it when I said it. It takes a brave man to go against his manager. Unfortunately, I’m neither.”

“But—”

“This is as candid as I can be with you, Philip. I understand you mean well for the branch, but this is something above both of our pay grade.”

“But you understand my position, don’t you?” Philip pleads. “You’re in the same position too. Except, in my case, you actually have the power to do something!”

Irene’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps, but you do have the option to wait two more years. That’s all the assurance I can give you for now.”

Philip shakes his head and grabs his briefcase, digging into it, “I hope you will still gamble two more years when you see this!”

He rummages out photocopies of Sherlock’s confidential personnel file, his criminal history and drug abuse highlighted. Irene’s eyes go wide when she realises what it is.

“Where did you get this? You’re not supposed to have access to personnel records.”

“I think the more important question is, can we still allow an arsonist and a junkie to be the branch manager at a tough time such as this? Moreover, someone who’s just nearly set fire to the branch? When economic growth is slowing, and we’re seeing layoffs left, right and centre?”

Anger and conflict flash through Irene’s eyes as she reads through it. Philip leans in from across the table to whisper as she reads through his file.

“You didn’t know this, did you? Isn’t it shocking that Mycroft kept it from all of us, basically threw us under the bus?”

Irene collects herself and looks Philip dead in the eye. “Thank you for... bringing this to my attention; it is certainly _shocking.”_

Philip nods understandingly. “That was my first impression too. I wish I didn’t have to reveal it, but I felt this was the only option remaining for me. The only thing that could make you see my point.”

“I certainly see your point, Philip,” Irene smiles gratefully. “I’m floored... is there anything more that you might...?”

“No, that’s the last of it. I didn’t make more copies because I realise it was confidential, but sometimes the ends justify the means, don’t they?”

Irene breathes in shakily. “Absolutely, Philip. Absolutely, they do! I don’t know how I can thank you. And I will certainly get back to you on...”

Philip’s eyes widen slightly, “I await your decision. Thanks for taking the time.”

She rises from her chair just as Philip does, shaking his hand with a warm smile, “Have a safe drive back to Ferndale.”

“Thanks a lot!”

* * *

“Sherlock!”

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, filmed through the blinds from outside his office. He’s on speakerphone with Irene.

“For the last time, Irene, I—”

“I just had a fascinating conversation with one of your employees.”

Sherlock frowns, picking up on the way she says ‘fascinating’. _“My_ employees couldn't fascinate a five-year-old with a unicorn, but okay.”

“Philip Anderson just left my office after telling me he thinks he can run the branch better than you.”

Sherlock glances at the camera in alarm, gulping. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out of it, rendered mute by betrayal. It’s the second time in the day he’s making his gut-punched face.

“I...”

“What’s going on in your branch?” Her voice on the other side of the line is sharp, furious. “You can’t have your employees undermining you like that! I thought you were smarter than this! Get control of your branch immediately!”

“Irene—”

“And... and one more thing, just _how_ does he have access to your personnel file?”

Sherlock grits his teeth, remembering how Sally had called him ‘arsonist’.

“Why does he know about your criminal history, Sherlock? And the drugs? You’re lucky he came to me with all the photocopies—”

“He photocopied it?!” The vein in Sherlock’s neck stands out prominent as hot blood surges in his face, giving his usually pale face a ruddy complexion. He clenches his jaw, balling his hands into fists, face contorting with fury.

“—because if he let that information out in your branch, it could mean the end of your brief stint at H&H!”

Sherlock glances at John typing away at his desk, at Molly and Greg at reception, chatting, at Mrs Hudson reading a spreadsheet to Sally at Accounting. Do they all know too?

“I’ll take care of this, Irene. Thank you for telling me.”

There’s a brief pause on the other side of the phone, followed by a tired sigh. “Good. And I hope this... this means we’re even.”

Sherlock immediately takes the phone off speaker, but tiny traces of her voice are still audible through his collar mic, which he tries adjusting but fails in the urgency.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

There’s a tense silence, which is followed by, “Am I on camera?”

“No.”

“Okay, I just... you did me a favour by setting me up in the hotel, and now I’ve helped you, so... we’re even.”

Sherlock presses his fingers to his eyes, “Then you’re really going to hate this next part.”

“... What?”

“Molly tells me one of her university friends is looking for a lease for a flat in Central London.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because... I know you still haven’t found a place to live—”

“Sherlock, I do _not_ need your guilt-ridden charity!”

“You know I’m not the kind of man who doles out _charity!”_

“No, I know...”

“You handle things on your end, and I’ll handle on my end. And you’ll meet me 7 pm sharp. I’ll text you the address.”

“Sherlock—”

“Goodbye, Irene.” With that, he cuts the call. Leans back into his chair, steepling his fingers together, deep in thought. Until he sees Philip Anderson cheerfully walk into H&H Ferndale from his rendezvous with Irene.

“Sometimes, I look at Anderson and wonder ‘Really? Is that the sperm that won?’” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the camera, “Did he _really_ expect to turn Irene against me? _Irene,_ of all people, _especially_ when they’ve all been circulating rumours that I hooked up with her?”

He lets out a frustrated exhale.

“Should have expected this from him! And Sally Donovan! She must’ve been behind this too! And all these months, I’ve kept it quiet, what goes on between the two of them. How Anderson is cheating on his long-term girlfriend with Sally, who doesn’t even know about her existence!”

Sherlock gives out a choked sort of laugh. “And to think she’s taunting _my_ secrets when she doesn’t even know what’s going to hit her once she finds out.”

His admirably calm facade is rapidly slipping away, overcome by emotions of betrayal and hurt for one second before he composes himself with a clenched jaw and a balled fist. He still looks shaken to the core.

“And to think I trusted them! Trusted the people of this branch, followed Martha Hudson’s stupid advice! _Care about your employees, Sherlock, and you’ll be a good manager!” _He mocks her matronly manner with a scoff. “As if caring is the easiest thing to do in the world! Stupid, _stupid_ of me to take such a _stupid_ chance on the lot of them! Well, I’m done caring! I'm done trying to save their jobs!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson in H&H Ferndale conference room. Smugness rolls off him in waves as he strokes his jaw from over his unkempt beard in sure, deliberate movements.

“Am I ashamed of myself for stabbing Sherlock in the back? But it’s not stabbing in the back, is it? On one hand, there’s an inexperienced man whose brother got him the job. On the other hand, there’s everyone else whose jobs are at stake. I am a man and I simply did what was needed to be done. That’s why men like me exist in this world. We do what the weak aren’t willing to.”

He straightens in his chair, crosses his legs in a lofty, satisfied manner. “Am I a hero? I really can’t say, but yes. I am.”

Behind an oblivious Philip, outside the conference room window, we see Sherlock glaring at him. Sherlock catches the camera’s line of sight and smirks, a cold, terrifying twitch of the lips that promises vengeance.


	12. Coup d'état: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Sherlock knows what Philip has been up to, there's going to be hell to pay.

In his office, Sherlock jumps onto the internet and rapidly types something. His eyes flit over the monitor screen, analysing, lips moving in rapid mumbling, brows furrowed, before dropping the expression altogether with an air of finality.

“Now, I have to play this game very carefully,” he turns to the camera, “There are main three objectives I wish to achieve. First: Anderson must face the consequences of his betrayal. Second: I must not reveal Irene as my source. Third: the fact that such a thing ever happened must be kept from other employees, lest they be inspired to take up arms against me too.

“There are three things I can do right now. First: sweep it under the rug. Pros: no one gets to know what happened. Con: Anderson will think he got away and I won’t be able to fire him. Unacceptable.

“Second: confront Anderson, preferably with a closed-door meeting. Pros: I fire Anderson, and he learns not to say things without consequences. Cons: It will reveal Irene’s involvement, and I will not be able to impress on Anderson just how pissed off I am. Another con, if I’m firing him, he might try to get HR involved in this, and Greg Lestrade is the last person I...”

Sherlock trails off, his eyes wandering away as if remembering something. The lost, stricken expression returns to his face at Greg’s name, but he steels himself nevertheless.

“I can’t have HR involved in this. Internet,” he points to his computer, “says I should, but I don’t think I can trust anyone here anymore, even Lestrade.

“So, back to the issue: I can’t sweep it under the rug, and I can’t do a closed-door meeting. The last option is a big, dramatic exposé, catch Philip off-guard, make him come crawling to me, begging for forgiveness before I fire him. Cons: Irene’s involvement is revealed, and everyone knows what happened. But another pro: if I fire Philip anyway, they’ll be scared, they won’t come after me anymore.”

Sherlock settles into deep thought, contemplating his options. After a long time, he looks up, but this time there’s decision written in his eyes.

“It must be option three—big exposé, but with one tiny change: I must make Philip confess. That means I must investigate him and collect proof that he went to Irene, thus protecting her. He has a meltdown upon revelation, and the employees watch horrified, which scares them off me for life and then I fire him. All three objectives achieved.”

* * *

Camera cuts to H&H office floor. Most of the employees seem busy at work with Molly making copies and Philip scribbling and tapping away at his calculator. John is drinking tea and typing, occasionally rubbing at his eyes as if trying to fight sleep. Sherlock, standing in the doorway of his office and watching his kingdom with a stony expression—as if wondering which one of them could be actively plotting against him—tenses when he sees John yawn.

With an audible gulp, he steps a foot forward. And the next. With each step towards Philip’s desk, his resolve hardens. He takes out a packet of lozenges from his pocket.

“So... want a toffee?”

John and Philip look up at their manager in tandem, equally stunned. Sherlock... offering Philip... a _toffee?_

But Sherlock’s granite expression and the packet of sweets shoved under Philip’s nose are tough to refuse. Intimidated, Philip reaches into it and unwraps one, rolling into his mouth and biting into it, making a crunchy sound. Sherlock stares Philip down and Philip never takes his eyes off him. John gives the camera a worried look.

Sherlock shoves the little packet back into his pocket. “Any good?”

Philip nods mutely. Sherlock smirks deliberately.

“How was your procedure?”

“It-it went fine.”

“Did it?” Sherlock sounds as if he’s promising a threat, soft and dark. Philip swallows. John looks at the camera suspiciously. Sherlock offering candies _and_ small talk? Is it Christmas?

“Yeah. Had an emergency crown put in.”

“At the dentist, yes?”

Philip sports a deer-in-the-headlights look. The quiet, obviously hostile confrontation is starting to attract the attention of the rest of the employees.

“Yus,” Philip manages to utter with the toffee in his mouth.

“Oh, Philip,” Sherlock tuts, his voice deathly quiet and somehow, this soft, quiet, controlled Sherlock—as opposed to the usual manic, ball-of-energy, tactless Sherlock—is terrifying. John squares his shoulders, as if anticipating an assault. “Oh Philip. You’re not supposed to eat solid food till four hours after you’ve had a crown put in. Don’t you know that?”

Philip doesn’t answer, all his colour and his previous confidence drained from his face. Sherlock assesses him calculatingly.

“Did you even have an appointment, or were you just playing hooky from work?”

Philip starts to shake his head. “I wasn’t playing hooky.”

“Prove it, then. Show me your receipt from your visit to the dentist.”

“It contains-it contains m-my medical information,” Philip stammers out, “I can’t sh-show you that! It’s confidential!”

“Confidential?” Sherlock sneers. “So, you _do_ believe in that concept?”

They stare each other off intensely; loathing rolls off Sherlock in waves while Philip is trying his best to not cower in front of his towering figure. Any moment and one of the men will say or do something they both will regret.

And that is exactly the moment John decides to de-escalate, “Well, actually, Sherlock, I believe Philip did have a dentist appointment today, I think. I heard him make it in the morning.”

The hot red of controlled rage drains off Sherlock’s face as he slowly turns in his spot to face John. John, who isn’t easily intimidated by men taller than him staring him down their nose, looks alarmed at the expression on Sherlock’s stricken face. Sherlock takes one last look at Philip before dragging his feet away slowly to his office, shutting the door behind him and the world out.

As the door clicks into place, nearly all employees breathe a sigh of relief. John looks nonplussed, from Philip’s face to Sherlock’s office door behind him. Philip, who has nearly curled into as much of a ball one can turn into in a professional environment, straightens with a cough. He shoots John a worried look before scurrying back to his work.

John glances at the camera, turmoil written in his wide, worried eyes. He realises he’s said something wrong, but doesn’t know what, and isn’t sure if he should sort it out with Sherlock after he’d dismissed his concerns so cavalierly in the morning.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office. He has the confused look of a child who’s just had the rug pulled from underneath him.

“Could John be in on this too? But he’s always been...” Sherlock realises something. “He’d been... he’d warned me about Sally today...”

He takes a sip of the stale coffee. It’s cold and horrible. He’s disgusted, both by the coffee and himself.

_“These couchings and these lowly courtesies might fire the blood of ordinary men, and turn pre-ordinance and first decree into the law of children... I’m_ no better,” he grimaces, remembering the rest.

_“Then fall, Caesar.”_

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room. The blinds are drawn, the door is closed and the telly is on, playing _The __Godfather Part II _on DVD. Fidgeting, sighing employees sit in rows, worried about missing work. It’s three pm, one more hour till business slumps for the day. Phones ring outside, clients demanding attention, but not one person dares rebel, feeling the tension saturating the room. This time, Sherlock sits alone, on the sidelines, enjoying not the movie but the uncomfortable look on Philip’s face. There’s no John beside him.

The scene where Fredo and Michael Corleone sit and talk in the restaurant in Havana comes up, and Fredo nearly tells Michael about how mad he had been that their father chose Michael as the family’s successor over him. Sherlock, watching Philip try not to squirm in his front-row seat, smirks at the camera, enjoying the slow psychological torture. Not one employee dares say a word.

Sherlock grabs the remote and fast-forwards into the film. The employees echo a frustrated groan in unison.

“If we _have_ to ignore our work and watch a movie, at least let us enjoy it, boss!” Billy protests bravely, but Sherlock shoots him a dark look, fast-forwarding till the scene where Fredo introduces Michael to the entourage from Washington in the Havana night club. Showgirls in skimpy, flamboyant costumes dance behind the singer and Greg lets out a sigh.

“I don’t think this kind of media is appropriate for the workplace, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shoots Greg a withering look and Greg backs down, realising something larger is at play. Sherlock setting the office on ‘controlled fire’ is one thing, but making his employees watch a mafia thriller with quiet fury in his face is another thing entirely.

The scene where Fredo lets it slip that Johnny Ola and he are old pals comes up and Michael’s realisation that Fredo is the traitor dawns clearly on Al Pacino’s face. Betrayal stings and shakes the actor’s figure as he buries his face in his palm. This time, Philip very clearly looks sideways in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock lets a vicious smirk spread deliberately on his face as he fast-forwards the film again, his eyes never leaving Philip’s traitorous face.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office.

“Yes, I will absolutely draw this out. Being a manager is an act, and I will not finish it with one clean blow to the head. I’ll slowly drain the blood out of Philip till he comes to me white with guilt, begging, pleading to be forgiven.”

* * *

We cut back to the conference room. The pivotal New Year scene where Michael Corleone warmly embraces Fredo and kisses him comes up and Sherlock watches Philip with a vengeance. Michael claps his hands onto Fredo’s neck as he seethes those terrible words against his struggling older brother: “I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart.”

And that’s the point Sherlock chooses to abruptly turn the telly off. Philip lets out a nearly inaudible gasp as the reflection of his head appears on the TV where Fredo’s had been moments ago.

“That’s it for today,” Sherlock rises, opening the blinds to let the room fill with sunlight before everybody has the chance to adjust to the sudden brightness. “Everybody back to work.”

“But the good part is about to come!” Mrs Hudson interjects.

“No,” Sherlock whispers silkily, “Back to work.”

* * *

Camera cuts to H&H emergency stairwell. Philip is pacing up and down the stairs nervously and Sally is watching him cautiously.

“He can’t possibly know, Pip!”

“He knows!” Philip is on the verge of a breakdown, “He’s onto me. Someone told him. Maybe Irene did! Oh God, of course she did, they’re hooking up!”

Sally rolls her eyes. “How unprofessional of them!”

Philip gapes at her. “We’re doing the same!”

“Yeah, but ours is not a boss-employee thing. We’re not using each other to advance our careers. Ours is real!”

Philip looks away, not meeting her eyes. “I haven’t heard from Irene. I’m ninety percent sure she told Sherlock. That backstabbing...”

He keeps shaking his head unsteadily, the adrenaline of rebelling against his boss having worn off completely, but Sally grabs his face and steadies him, “Hey, hey, Philip, look at me.”

Philip doesn’t meet her eyes at first, but Sally strokes his hair softly and he lifts his head a little, clenching his jaw.

“Philip, it doesn’t matter if Irene told him. Look at me, listen to me. All that matters is you did what was right. What we both thought was best for the branch.”

Philip covers her wrists in his grip, stroking over her skin gently. “But now he has cause to fire me.”

“Doesn’t matter. If he fires you, he’ll have to fire the both of us and I don’t think even Sherlock Holmes can do that—fire the top salesman _and_ the head of accounting at once.”

“But monkey, I love this job,” Philip looks down, gulping, “it makes me feel so... I need this job. It’s more than just the money for me! It’s everything to me!”

“I know, Pip. I know.”

“If I had to leave, I’d have left the day Sherlock became manager, but I love this job too much just to leave because I don’t like the manager.”

“But, Philip, if the job doesn’t love you back, can you truly afford to stay?”

Philip’s lip trembles and the couple link their foreheads together, breathing deeply, soaking up comfort in each others’ presence. After a long time, Philip opens his mouth, his voice shaky, “Yes, monkey. I’d still fight to stay.”

Sally looks at him with pity in her eyes. “Then let’s fight together, okay? Sherlock has skeletons of his own and we still haven’t revealed them to the rest of the office yet, so we still have that bargaining chip.”

“Yes.”

“If he calls a meeting—and he will try to get you behind closed doors meeting with Greg because he’s smart—and if the discussion even hints towards firing, you will ask for a private discussion with Sherlock first, and once Greg is gone, you’ll let Sherlock know what you know about his past and what can happen if it gets out in the office.”

“And?”

“And if he’s as smart as his freaky tricks, he’ll take the hint and back off.”

Philip nods with uncertainty, but his enthusiasm picks up slowly. This could work, maybe he can salvage his way out of the hole he’s dug himself into. And if one has to be totally optimistic, maybe he’s simply being paranoid. Maybe Sherlock making them watch a movie was just him being a terrible manager as usual.

“I’ve never done something like this, Sal.”

“I know, Pip.”

“I’ve never rebelled. I was The Stickler in Sixth Form.”

“I know,” she strokes his jaw softly. “That’s why I’m so proud of you.”

He nearly blushes and dips his head, leaning into her comforting touch. “Thank you.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip and John’s desk clump. Philip seems much calmer than before, but he still looks frazzled. The shift in his mood doesn’t go unnoticed by John, who peers at him suspiciously.

“Hey, Philip, you okay?”

“Fine.”

“I know it was you.”

Philip and John both turn to see Sherlock approaching them. Philip tenses up as Sherlock saunters up to his desk and sits on it like he owns it. “_I know it was you, Fredo._ Wonderful movie, isn’t it?”

Whatever little confidence Philip had gained drains away almost immediately. Sherlock grins winningly at an unmoving, mute Philip. John looks like he wants to comment, but this time he stays away.

_“I look down towards his feet, but that’s a fable,”_ Sherlock looks down at Philip’s shoes, “_If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee._ Do you know where that’s from?”

“Sh-Shakespeare?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirks, drawing out the ’s’ sound, “Othello says that when he realises Iago had been the villain all along. Do you know what happened next?”

Philip doesn’t answer, but his breathing becomes shallower and his knuckles turn whiter by the second. Sherlock looks away, drumming his fingers on his knees restlessly.

“There’s a coffee stain on your tie, Philip.”

Philip gains his complexion somewhat. “Yes, I spilled some after lunch.”

“From the machine?”

Philip nods. Sherlock shakes his head pityingly.

“No.”

“What?”

“It’s not coffee from our kitchen. It’s from Hugh’s cafe in the corporate office. He uses homemade cream and fresh coffee beans. The colouring and the pattern is very distinctive.”

“Now hold on—” Terror flashes across Philip’s eyes for the briefest moment and it’s confirmation enough for Sherlock.

“You were there, Philip, I know it! I can see you had a hazelnut frappuccino, and I know because I’ve spent half my childhood in the corporate office—”

“That’s not true—”

“Prove it!” Sherlock all but roars and the attention of the entire office is turned to the white-hot confrontation between the two men, “Open your wallet and show me there’s no receipt from the cafe. Show me you were at the dentist and not at the corporate office!”

Philip, however, tries to soften the vehemence in Sherlock’s demands with soft mutterings and sidelong glances, “Now, Sherlock, I already told you, my medical information is confidential and I can’t show anything which—”

“I sign your paycheques, Philip!” Sherlock thunders, “I ensure you have proper health insurance! So do _not_ be the all-around idiot you typically are and do _not_ try to sell me the confidentiality card!”

_“I’m_ the idiot?! H&H compensates me for my work, not you!” Philip counters back furiously, nostrils flaring. He has reached his breaking point, but not in the way Sherlock had expected him to, “I don’t owe _you_ one damn penny!”

“How dare you, Philip—?”

“How dare you, Sherlock! How dare you—how _dare_ you think I owe you my salary,” Philip’s voice keeps climbing up the octave, “something I work for on a daily basis, by the way! How dare you, Sherlock?! How dare you have all the privilege in the world—intelligence, looks, money, position and charm, half of which most of us don’t get—and yet spend your entire life traipsing around without hard work, shooting your drugs up and burning things down in rehab and expect me—a man who earns his own bread—to owe you _anything, Peter?!_ How dare you come here out of nowhere and steal away what was rightfully mine?! And how dare you sleep with your boss to—oh, she’s the one who told you, didn’t she?” Philip spits savagely, “Your own little concubine!”

The silence that follows Philip’s outburst is tense and thick and overbearing, punctuated only by the sharp ringing of a phone at reception. A couple of employees give a start at the sudden interruption. Despite Sherlock and Philip locked in a staring contest, Molly condescends to pick up the phone gingerly, “Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly...”

“Oh, you’d know all about ‘concubines’,” Sherlock sneers, glancing at Sally, “won’t you, Philip?”

“... uh, no, sir,” Molly gently whispers into her phone, “he’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

Camera pans to a dumbstruck Sally. She’s heard the accusation Sherlock has flung in Philip’s direction. Philip looks feverish; eyes burning, cheeks flushed, hint of perspiration on the forehead, fists balled in expectations of a fight. Sherlock, however, looks like he’s coming down from the crest of his rage.

“... Sure, I’ll let him know... You too, Mr Polaski... Bye.”

She keeps the handset down cautiously, returning to the clash of the titans in front of her. Philip’s blinking is irregular and he’s caught completely off-guard. He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish, but no words come out. It’s hard to tell whether his stunned silence is because of his complete loss of temper or Sherlock’s accusation.

Sherlock coldly buttons his suit jacket in one smooth move. “We’ll discuss the terms of your resignation first thing tomorrow morning. Anything else you want to discuss, my office door is open. Greg?”

It takes Lestrade a little while to respond. “Y-yes?”

“My office, _please.”_

With that, Sherlock marches back into his office, holding his door for Lestrade. Once the older man slips in, the door closes behind them with a _thud._ The entire office, left in limbo about Philip’s fate, gapes at Philip, who’s left catatonic, rooted to where he’s left standing in the wake of his outburst.

As time passes, the employees return to their desks and work, recovering from the shock. Sally doesn’t dare approach Philip, only throwing surreptitious glances in Philip’s direction. John shares worried looks with Molly, but ultimately is the only one to reach out to Philip with a tentative hand in his direction.

“Hey.”

That syllable breaks Philip out of his trance. He gazes at John, his eyes lost and hazy, then in the direction of Sherlock’s office and finally seems to register what happened to him. With slow, sure steps, he walks out the office, out of H&H, without a look at Sally.

John swallows, torn between his annoying best-friend/manager and his annoying deskmate of three years. But Sherlock is in his office, with Greg. With a stiff nod to himself and a reassuring look at Molly, he follows after Philip.

* * *

John finds Philip crouched near his car in the parking lot. Just to make sure if there’s anyone watching, John looks up towards the two windows that belong to H&H office. Sure enough, he can make out Mrs Hudson’s and Billy’s faces among the throng that has gathered at the conference room windows.

John sighs and marches up to Philip. To his credit, he’s not crying yet.

“Philip.”

Philip doesn’t look up. Seeing no other option, John crouches down on the asphalt, sitting down cross-legged next to Philip, “Hey, man.”

“Go away.”

“What happened?!”

Despite the situation, Philip’s snark is still ever-present, “Oh, weren’t you there?”

“Will you stop being a dick and talk like an adult for once?”

John’s strict voice forces some sense into Philip, but he doesn’t lose his sulky voice, “I will give you back the AIG account. You can have Merrill Lynch too once I’m gone. I’ll give the smaller clients to Henry.”

“Jesus Christ, Philip,” John rolls his eyes, “Stop being so dramatic. He wasn’t serious about firing you!”

Philip looks up at John, peering at him closely. His eyes are red. “No, he was.”

“Why would he be?”

“I made a mistake.”

John shakes his head. “You’re the best salesman in the company. I think he can let a mistake go.”

“No, John, you do n’t-you don’t understand! I was openly insubordinate. I lost my rag, John! I was angry and I was-I was way out of line.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have done that. But that can’t warrant a firing, can it? I mean, all he can do is sue you for slander,” John chuckles nervously, “which he won’t, I assure you. Despite what you might believe, Sherlock isn’t a terrible person. He is kinda nice, and pretty forgiving, actually—”

“John, I accessed his confidential personnel records: the drugs, the arson, everything. And I photocopied it, and he knows that, and now Greg knows that. That act itself is borderline criminal.”

John blinks rapidly, trying to process the enormity of what Philip is suggesting. He exhales shakily, disbelieving, “Wait no-no, what do you—wait, are you saying—?”

Philip doesn’t look at John, just nods. “And I-I gave it to Irene. Of course, I thought she didn’t know... I mean, I didn’t expect she had known and still hired him. It just...”

John chuckles, shaking his head, “No, no... Sherlock is not a...” his chuckle gets a little too high-pitched, “of course, he’s not...”

This time, Philip doesn’t respond. He looks almost regretful. “I never should’ve... I—”

“You must’ve got the wrong file, Philip. Sherlock’s not a junkie. I _know_ him!”

“Do you, John? Do you _really?”_

John looks away, unsure, conflicted. “He just doesn’t seem the... I don’t know, type.”

Philip throws John a very dirty look. “There’s no ‘type’ of addict, John. Sometimes, shit just happens.”

“Right, of course, and you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

Philip looks away, licking his lip. “I’m just saying. He used to be.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room. He still has the same uncertain look in his eyes.

“What Philip said has a grain of truth. After all, there’s a lot of stuff I still don’t know about Sherlock... It’s not that the drugs thing bothers me. He appears pretty sober so I’m sure that’s in the past. It’s just... it’s never really struck me how little I know about him.”

John inhales, blinking hard. “I don’t know... sometimes, I feel like I’ve known him forever. Then, suddenly, I learn a thing or two about him and I realise I’ve barely scratched the surface. It puts things in perspective, I s’pose, that we’re not as close as I’d like to believe... God, I sound like such a fool!”

* * *

We cut back to the parking lot. John’s tie flutters in the wind, along with Philip’s hair which keeps getting in his eyes.

“So you... went to Irene with this stuff and thought she’d work a miracle and make you manager? That was stupid!”

Philip buries his head. “I should’ve known that’s the sort of pillow talk they’d engage in,” he settles into a clumsy imitation of Irene’s masterful manner, “_‘Sherlock darling, you couldn’t make me come. Oh, and Philip Anderson said you suck and you should fire him’_,” then swiftly changes into a caricature of Sherlock’s lofty manner, “_‘I’ll do that, Irene, and thank you for sleeping with me and keeping my job safe from people who deserve it more’.”_

John manages out a short, uncomfortable laugh, too distracted by the mental image to even process the content of Anderson’s words. “Yeah!”

“You okay, John?” Philip peers at him. “You don’t look so good.”

“Oh no, it’s... I—well, look, I know you did a shitty thing—”

“Hey!”

“No, you did! You did and Sherlock has every right to fire you!” John stares him down with a raised eyebrow, and Philip looks away, “But you can at least negotiate for a transfer than a full-fledged firing.”

Philip blinks. He clearly hasn’t considered that avenue. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Look mate, you’re a good salesman and Sherlock is the one you have a problem with. Just take a transfer to some other branch—Bowes Park or outside London, if you’re willing to relocate. If the issue is not regarding your performance then you can at least ask for that. And don’t try to go over Sherlock’s head this time. Don’t ask verbally. Just email for a meeting with him, Irene and Greg and make your case. I’m sure they’ll work something out. Like I said before, Sherlock isn’t a terrible person. He’s only firing you because your behaviour was unacceptable.”

“But—”

John shakes his head. “Don’t do anything stupid, Philip. Losing your job, in this economy, is plain stupid! Sure, you’re angry, but don’t let your anger make decisions that are bad for you... God knows I’ve done enough of that.”

Philip smirks. “I know.”

John rises to his feet and offers Philip a hand. “Now go in there, apologise to Sherlock like the colossal, selfish prat you’ve been and ask for a transfer.”

* * *

When John and Philip walk back into H&H, the atmosphere in the office has become more relaxed. The door to Sherlock’s office is still closed and all employees are at their desks—all but Sally. Philip frowns, noticing her absence.

John claps his shoulder awkwardly and settles down at his desk, peering at the post-its of his missed messages on his landline. He glances up at Molly, who’s looking at him expectantly. John smiles reassuringly as if to say ‘all’s_ well and under control’._ She returns his smile and goes back to her ringing landline phone.

The door to Sherlock’s office opens and Greg emerges, followed by Sally Donovan, of all people. Philip’s jaw falls to the floor as she throws him a cold look before sauntering past John’s and his desks without a second look.

“Philip?” Greg calls out, beckoning him into Sherlock’s office. Inside the office, at his desk, Sherlock looks positively livid, avoiding all eye contact with Philip.

Still not having recovered by the surprise at Sally’s role in the meeting, Philip rises slowly from his chair, acknowledging John’s _‘all the best’_ with a brief look, as Greg waves him into the office and shuts the door curtly.

* * *

Once inside Sherlock’s office, Philip sits down timidly from across Sherlock, painfully aware that despite his qualms about his boss’ competency, he’s been way out of line. Sherlock doesn’t even grace Philip with a look, busying himself with flipping through random pages on his desk.

In this tense environment, Greg goes to stand against the cupboard behind Sherlock to Philip’s right and begins with a deep exhale. “Philip, I don’t suppose we have to impress upon you the gravity of your... emotional outburst in the office today. It was highly inappropriate.”

Philip’s breathing quickens. Greg assesses him with an expression so pokerfaced that Philip can’t tell what’s coming for him next. “Of course, Greg. I apologise for my... it was not my intention to lash out.”

“That’s appreciated, Philip. This is why my department exists. This is why Human Resources exists. I’m a professional equipped to deal with interpersonal conflicts in a rational and non-confrontational manner with the least amount of disruption to workplace productivity. As such, I’d like you to keep directing any of your complaints in my direction.”

Philip and Sherlock both make equally indignant faces at Greg’s long-winded management-speak. Greg looks like he’s trying too hard to hold his exasperated sigh.

“One second,” Sherlock interjects, “what do you mean by _‘keep directing complaints’?_ Does _he,”_ he brandishes an angry finger at Philip without looking at him, “does this hairy bagel complain about me?”

Greg has placed himself in a false position, “Well, Sherlock, as an HR—”

“Excuse me?” Philip demands, “A hairy bagel?!”

“Oh, do you need a mirror, Philip?” Sherlock counters almost gleefully, “Because that’s what your beard looks like. A hairy bagel!”

Greg throws Sherlock a stern look, “Sherlock.”

“Greg,” Philip hisses, “I have another complaint!”

Greg sighs resignedly, “We can discuss that after the meeting—”

“This particular office worker, who shall remain nameless, wasted an entire afternoon making all employees watch _The Godfather_ so that he could bully me into—”

“It’s _Godfather Part II!”_ Sherlock seethes through clenched teeth.

“Oh, so you don’t know _Doctor Who_, but you know _The Godfather Part II,_ huh?”

“Well,” Greg tries to de-escalate without much progress, “they’re _both_ excellent—”

“Doctor Who is our national pride!”

“At least I don’t lose myself in television and movies to escape my dull life like you!” Sherlock counters back

“What even—?”

“Quiet!” Greg nearly roars, “Both of you, quiet!”

Sherlock looks appalled at Greg’s interjection. Philip bites back his anger. Greg straightens with a curt clear of his throat. “Philip, I will make this short. Sherlock and I have come to a decision about your role at H&H.”

Philip nods gravely. Sherlock looks away petulantly. It’s clear that the decision they’ve arrived at is not liked by him.

“You will continue at H&H Ferndale, in your current role as senior sales representative.”

Philip frowns, his eyes narrowing. He hadn’t been expecting this.

“But, we still have to take your insubordination and your loss of temper into account, so, starting from Monday, you’ll be attending a three-week course on anger management.”

Philip blinks, lost for words. Greg scans his face for indications on how Philip is receiving the news, finds nothing out-of-the-ordinary, and continues.

“You’ll still receive your basic pay and benefits during this period, and after returning to office, you’ll be placed on a one-week probation. Any incident during the probation and you’ll be sent back for a refresher course.”

Philip is still confused by the change in heart. It’s still essentially a suspension, but it’s way kinder than he had expected Sherlock to be. “But why?”

Greg purses his lips. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks like he’s trying to swallow something rough and dry and painful down his throat. He clenches his fists and squares his shoulders, but doesn’t look up at Philip. “Because you... are... an _integral_ part of the... H&H family.”

Greg looks amused by Sherlock’s discomfort, but continues with a straight face. “Now, it’s already five pm today, so we’ll continue this discussion tomorrow, including how to handle this transition and who will be taking your clients on temporarily.”

“But—”

“I will remind you again, Philip, that we have zero tolerance for this sort of behaviour. Any recurrence and we will be forced to take stricter measures. Is that understood?”

Philip nods mutely.

“Good. Any questions, my door’s always open. And so is Sherlock’s.”

Greg looks at Sherlock pointedly. Despite apparently great discomfort, Sherlock manages to smile murderously and nod.

* * *

When Philip finally gets out of the meeting with Sherlock and Greg, he sees Sally Donovan bolt out of the office, only one arm inside the sleeve of her coat as if she’s avoiding someone and doesn’t want to be caught while wearing her coat. Philip dashes after her, and we follow clandestinely.

“Hey, Sally!”

She doesn’t turn despite obviously having heard him.

“Sal! Monkey!”

At ‘monkey’, Sally turns abruptly. Her jaw is clenched and her defenses are up. “What?”

Still riding high on the adrenaline from his miraculous escape from getting fired, Philip grabs her hand flirtatiously and grins widely, “I’m not getting fired!”

Sally, however, retracts her hand sharply, her nostrils flaring. “And how do you think _that_ happened?”

She storms away towards the lifts, stomping on the floor with her flats forcefully as she walks. It takes Philip some moments to realise what she meant. He rushes after her and just before she’s about to get into a lift, he grabs her arm again and pulls her into the emergency staircase.

“What do you mean?”

“Honestly, Philip, do you _really_ believe things just take care of themselves like that?!” She bursts out angrily.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“I told them I’d quit if they fired you. I told you before too: they won’t lose both their best salesman and the head of accounting at once! I put myself on the firing line for you, Philip, which is more than you’ve ever done for me!”

The rage and hate in Sally’s eyes is frightening. Her curly hair, usually tied in a neat bun at work, is loose and wild and her eyes are red. Philip, in shock at Sally’s outburst, tries to embrace her, but she pushes him away forcefully.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

But Philip still reaches out to touch her arm, and Sally, outraged, slaps his hand, “I’m warning you, Philip!”

“I’ve never done _anything_ for you?”_ Philip’s_ earlier rage returns in full measure, “I went to Irene under your constant insistence, for _you!”_

“For me?” Sally scoffs, “Oh, so was it me who was going to be manager, or was it you?”

“Come on, monkey, I didn’t—”

“Don’t you dare call me monkey!”

Philip looks lost. “Sally, come on!”

“Who’s the other woman, Philip?”

Whatever Philip had been about to retort turns to dust in his mouth. “What?!”

“I heard what Sherlock said! And I’ve known him long enough to know when his ‘deductions’ are right, which is all the bloody time! So tell me, who’s the other woman?!”

“Sally...”

“Who’s the other woman, Philip?” Her voice breaks at the last syllable, her lower lip trembling. Her fingers clutch onto her purse desperately, scratching the surface, as if resisting hard from hitting Philip and giving in to the hurt.

Philip can’t meet her eyes; he looks down at his shoes, overcome by guilt and shame, as Sally looks away, biting the back of her hand to keep her tears from falling, never letting her lover see them.

“It’s you, Sally,” he manages at last, his shoulders shaking, “You’re the other woman.”

Sally turns away at once and Philip still doesn’t look up. They both know it’s over, and the burnt, mangled remains of their office fling are too ugly to even look at. She sniffles back a tear, wiping it before it can fall and straightens her posture.

“Right. That’s the last time I ever help you.” She hooks her purse on her shoulder with purpose and strides towards the exit gate of the emergency staircase, into the lift lobby.

“Sally...”

She comes to an abrupt stop at Philip’s weak voice. Philip raises his head to look at her, her back to him, tears flowing freely from his eyes. Sally closes her eyes and clenches her jaw, steeling herself from giving in to the emotion, the heartache in his voice.

“What?”

“I’m... Just wanted you to know that Monday onwards, I’ll be joining anger management,” his voice is a broken, pitiful whimper, “I won’t be coming to the office for three weeks.”

“And who do you think proposed that to them?” She sneers, turning up her coat collar as if in defense, and marches out of there, letting the emergency exit door wail loudly as she leaves, definitively walking out of Philip’s life.

It’s only when she’s finally gone that Philip lets himself break down against the staircase railings, his knees giving away and his face hidden from the rest of the world as if he can’t afford anybody to see him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read [a missing scene on Sherlock's POV about the whole Philip-stabbing-him-in-the-back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24997330)!
> 
> I know canon Sherlock is not a big movie aficionado, but given his interest in crime (plus, he knows who Egon Ronay is so he can't be that detached from civilisation), there's no way he hasn't watched (or at least read) The Godfather trilogy. If you haven't watched Godfather II (highly unlikely seeing how old the movie is, but if you haven't, I recommend it wholeheartedly), here's a link to the scenes mentioned:
> 
> 1) [Fredo and Michael Corleone talk in the hotel restaurant in Havana where Fredo almost reveals how mad he was that their dad chose Michael as the successor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kKdQArNYoM).
> 
> 2) [The Johnny Ola Havana nightclub scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwFC9QKCzgw).
> 
> 3) [The 'I know it was you, Fredo' scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjUOBVAbGhQ).


	13. Skip-Level Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene conducts a surprise meeting with all H&H Ferndale employees. Sherlock hates that he's not allowed in. Anderson’s absence is felt throughout the office.

“Hey, Molly.”

At the reception, John, in a white chequered shirt and black denim trousers, hangs his jacket on the coat-rack and peeps into Molly’s collection of couriers and mails, “Anything for me?”

“Yeah, the Brent Coselli contracts came in for you,” Molly pushes a package towards him, “and the usual. Philip handed over AIG back to you for the duration of his ‘retreat’ so...”

John chuckles, but it’s a little wistful. “Yeah, funny how that worked out, didn’t it?”

“And,” Molly drops her voice, “Sherlock’s taking Philip’s desk.”

That makes John jerk his neck up in surprise and wonder. He almost lets out a stupid, hopeful gasp before he catches himself with a clear of his throat. Turns to see Sherlock next to his desk, sitting where Philip used to sit, peering into the computer Philip used to use. Sherlock catches John’s eyes and arches his eyebrow in a tentative greeting. Christmas is next month, but John, wide-eyed, biting his lower lip and practically vibrating with expectant elation, seems to have received his gift in advance.

Molly glances at the camera in jubilation with the smug air of a matchmaker and leans over the reception, “Just for a couple o’days.”

That breaks John out of his trance. “Sorry what?”

“Something got into the air duct in his office. They’re getting it fixed.”

The camera pans around to focus on Sherlock’s office. Two men in grey coveralls—repair mechanics, presumably sent by the office park custodian—are at work inside, on the exposed air ducts for the central heating. John nods smartly and collects his mail into a neat pile.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Molly.”

Molly smiles sweetly and, as John’s back is turned to her, she turns to the camera with a clandestine thumbs-up.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room, vibrating with excitement.

“Did you _see_ the look on John’s face?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room. He can’t keep the silly grin off his face.

“Uh... yeah, it’s odd having Sherlock sit out here, with us,” he fidgets with his fingers, much like a twitterpated schoolboy, “Obviously, he’s the boss and all, but it’s not just that... It’s more like... having him sit near where I sit, so close to where I work... every time I look up, he’s there, within my reach. It’s like... having an ostrich inside a birdhouse meant for parakeets. An ostrich with impossible cheekbones and unruly curls...”

John realises what he’s saying and goes horribly red. He clears his throat.

“Wow, I’m... saying a lot of things, and I’ll probably shut up now. Can you delete this part from the documentary? No, no, it’s just... he’s my boss, and I don’t want this to be misconstrued by... the HR or someone.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and <strike>Philip</strike> Sherlock’s desk clump.

“Morning,” John puts his bag down near his chair, trying to look casual about the arrangement.

Sherlock gives John a perfunctory nod, trying to appear busy with the stationery Philip Anderson has left on his desk. It’s an odd sight, having Sherlock out in the wild, instead of cocooned in his office, solitary and sentinel-like. He looks out of place, much less unreachable and managerial here.

“If you’re looking for the stapler,” John settles in his chair, “Philip keeps it in the first drawer on the left.”

Sherlock wasn’t searching for a stapler; nothing on his desk requires stapling, but he still pulls on the drawer handle, “It’s locked.”

“Yeah, he keeps it locked.”

Sherlock assesses John. “You mean he keeps his stapler locked from you.”

“He steals my pencils, so I feel entitled.”

With a straight face, John meets Sherlock’s eyes, whose face is stony, expression neutral. A beat passes, and they simultaneously break into giggles at the pettiness and the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Right, Anderson steals your pencils.”

“You should see his puncher; it’s labelled.”

John’s face goes red with glee, and Sherlock tries to restrain his deep chortles. Some people are turning around at their ungainly chuckles, but none of them mind. Sherlock’s eyes nearly tear up with the effort of keeping his mirth controlled. They laugh as if they’re thirteen and without a care in the world.

Camera pans to Accounting. Sally is watching them, lips puckered in indignation. She doesn’t seem happy her ex-lover’s chair is occupied by the very man who suspended him.

“People are looking,” John points out when he meets Sally’s wistful gaze.

Sherlock’s laughter fades first. John turns back to Sherlock, smiling joyfully. They gaze at each other for a long moment, then John breaks the eye contact tentatively, and they both tear their eyes away, a bit awkward. The embarrassed pause hangs thick in the air between them.

Sherlock clears his throat as John purses his lips and boots his computer, drumming his fingers nervously on his desk. He keeps stealing furtive glances of his boss, dissatisfied by the abrupt end to their promising banter.

“I think,” John begins, his uncertain arm hanging in the space between them, “I know a way around his drawer.”

That regains him Sherlock’s full attention. “Do you?”

John scans the workplace around him. Everybody is fast at work. “Cover me.”

Without warning, John rises from his desk, crouches next to Sherlock’s lanky legs near Philip’s desk drawer. Sherlock casts a furtive look around; no one’s any wiser. John feels for something with his hand under the desk, and Sherlock crouches down too, joining John on the floor to aid him in his mission.

“Spare key?”

“Philip keeps one taped underneath.”

Sherlock frowns. “Who keeps a spare key to their drawer taped underneath their desk?”

John turns to face Sherlock; they’re suddenly very close, only John’s arm wedged into the desk between their faces. “Who labels their stationery?”

“Point,” Sherlock whispers back with a snort. “You’ll need a pen.”

“For?”

“Breaking in.”

An exasperated John reaches for a pen. “I’m not breaking into his drawer.”

“But it’s fun!”

John scoffs fondly, handing him the pen. Sherlock jams the tip into the edge of the drawer. A moment later, the drawer clangs open, the noise soft enough to not attract attention. Sure enough, Philip’s stationery is labelled in bright paper with his name in bold and caps. But Sherlock isn’t intrigued by that. A nondescript file under it with the label of ‘Top Secret’ catches his attention.

“No, don’t...” John groans.

“Top Secret?”

“Nevermind...”

Sherlock retracts the file before John has a chance to snatch it away. He plops back on his chair, and John realises he has no option but to let Sherlock go through the contents. He rises, his expression brooding, as Sherlock goes through the file, wonder and astonishment in his eyes.

“It’s...” John shakes his head, rubbing his eyes, “for the past few weeks, I’ve been sending Philip letters from the MI6.”

Sherlock’s jaw slackens. “What?”

“He believes they’re considering him for a top-secret mission in Timbuktu,” John leans down on Sherlock’s desk, bending over and rifling through the pages. “This is his application. And this,” he flips through some more, “is where I made him list every secret he promised he’d never, ever tell.”

Sherlock peers at the sheet in question with incredulity, reading it loud enough for both of them. “_‘My friend Pat Nisson runs a club of free-thinkers called ‘Paul McCartney is Dead’. I joined because I needed the extra money.’ _I don’t know who that is.”

“Don’t pretend. ‘Course you do.”

Sherlock’s expression is infuriatingly blank. John’s mouth falls open.

“The Beatles?”

“The insect?”

John sighs. “They’re a band. In fact, they are The Band. And Paul McCartney is not dead. He’s alive.”

“I see. So, is _this,”_ Sherlock points at the word ‘free-thinkers’, “supposed to be a conspiracy theory cult?”

John sniggers when he hears the sentence in Sherlock’s deadpan voice. “I believe so.”

“Oh, John!” Sherlock exclaims in amazement, “Nice work! You’ve outshone yourself... outshone me, in fact.”

John tips an imaginary cap off to him. “High praise from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, you did learn from the best.”

“Your humility lasted six seconds. That’s a record.”

Sherlock flashes him a crooked smile. “But... why didn’t you let me in on this?”

John glances at the camera and stretches his lips in an embarrassed grin as if he’s given himself away too much. “Well, uh... actually, this was supposed to be your Christmas present. You would decide Philip’s top-secret mission,” he makes jazz hands and chuckles nervously, “Surprise!”

His weak attempt at levity falls flat as Sherlock looks stricken by the depth of John’s efforts.

* * *

Camera cuts to a worried, downcast Sherlock in the conference room.

“Should’ve set shop here for the day, instead of Anderson’s desk,” he deflates, “Out there, I’m tempted to keep talking to John, and I must avoid that at all costs, no matter how difficult. Keep telling myself there’s no point but, ugh...”

He tugs at his curls in frustration, letting out a low-throated groan. “Most of the time, we end up planning new pranks on Anderson! And he’s not even here! I hate Anderson,” he settles for a snarl, “He’s an idi—”

But whatever Sherlock was going to say is lost as the conference room door is thrown open. Irene Adler, in a white blouse and a sharp, well-fitting navy blue business suit, is standing in the doorway, thin red lips pressed together, eyes twinkling. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, and he scowls.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?!”

“A very good morning to you too, Sherlock,” a self-satisfied smirk grows on her lips. “Sorry about your office. I’ll be needing the conference room if you don’t mind.”

“Why?”

She takes a sneak-peek at her Blackberry, “It’s nearly time for my meeting.”

“What meeting?!”

Her expression settles into that of a primary school teacher admonishing a daft student.

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Sherlock’s desk clump. Sherlock peers around to see all employees preparing for Irene’s meeting. Some have even made their way into the conference room where Irene is already present, diligently scribbling on a yellow notepad.

John also puts his desktop on standby and gives Sherlock a ‘see you later’ nod. Sherlock grabs him by the elbow.

“Wait, there’s a meeting? Why’s there a meeting?”

John frowns. “Didn’t you... get the email?”

Sherlock waves in the general direction of his office. He’s not been able to go in there because of the repair work. John blows out a breath.

“Well, Irene blocked our calendar for today,” he unlocks his computer to pull up his Outlook calendar, “Two hours in the morning, ten to twelve. Something called a skip-level meeting.”

He clicks on it and Sherlock peers in too. Everybody except Sherlock is invited to the meeting, his level evidently skipped.

“Maybe she forgot?” John points out, tone uncertain.

Sherlock’s expression sours. “She’s not going to forget about _me!”_

John’s face falls and becomes ashen. “No, of course... _she_ won’t... Look, if you want to, just come—”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock scoffs, an egoistic edge coming into his voice, “I don’t want to sit in there. It’ll suck the life out of me anyway!”

“Sour grapes, Sherlock,” John offers him a consolatory stretch of the lips and follows the rest of the employees into the conference room. The door shuts, and Sherlock is left outside, all alone, out of the loop. He assesses the camera, biting his lower lip in annoyance. From the conference room window, Mrs Hudson winks at Sherlock before turning her attention back to Irene, who’s begun speaking in muted tones.

“Will they talk about me inside?” He muses to himself inquiringly, and fashions his expression into one of apathy, “I don’t care... What are they saying about me? Couldn’t care less.”

Sherlock sounds far too irritated for someone who claims he doesn’t care.

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene and the H&H Ferndale employees in the conference room. She sits at the head of the table, commanding the room’s attention effectively with a smile uncharacteristic of her coolly predatory vibe.

“So, I’m happy to be here,” she entwines her fingers together as the employees watch her warily, attentively, “It’s very nice to see all of you. You’re all looking very well.”

A choir of agreements and inconclusive comments satisfy Irene about the responsiveness of her audience. Nobody notices Sherlock lingering outside, at the window, his expression one of great concentration. He’s trying to lip-read, but with limited success.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t got the time to sit down with this branch,” Irene pulls up some notes. “Fourth quarter, I’m sure you understand. It’s a busy time... So, what I’d like to begin with today is your thoughts on how you’re feeling with the recent change in management...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the break room. Her lips are pressed together, a valiant effort at controlling how pleased she is.

_“Recent change in management?_ Slapping a ‘Sherlock-bitching session’ sign on the conference room door would have been less obvious!”

* * *

Back in the conference room, Sherlock slides in coolly through the open door and takes a chair before anyone can protest. Irene peers at him in bewilderment.

“What are you doing here?”

John glances at the camera and presses his lips together in an amused smile. Sherlock casts a cursory glance at his employees watching him and leans in to whisper, “It’s a meeting, I’m sitting in on it.”

Irene scoffs. “I believe my email was quite clear.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“And why not?”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. “Because...” he waves a frustrated hand in the general direction of his office.

“I’ll let you know when you need to come in. Right now, I need you to leave, please.”

Sherlock pouts, wounded. Irene stares back, inflexible, unyielding. Realising his kicked-puppy expression won’t work on her, Sherlock stealths out the conference room. Sally nearly sniggers in delight. Greg shares a look with Mrs Hudson. Molly shakes her head. John dons a weak smile at Sherlock, who peers back through the window like a child who was refused ice cream.

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene Adler in the conference room, alone, legs crossed, expression grave.

“There’s been a lot of issues in this branch: the fire, the volunteering, Sherlock crashing the servers. But Philip Anderson was a wakeup call... I don’t believe in pointing fingers, so I’m here for due diligence. Of course, Sherlock was the catalyst, but we still have to figure out what other aspects led to it, whether others share similar beliefs, whether Philip’s, ah... dissatisfaction was wholly professional or whether there were personal issues too. Greg sent us an incident report, but it was too focused on Philip’s reactions, not very objective. So, I’m here to find exactly what we can fix.”

Irene smiles at the camera. It’s cold and diplomatic around the edges.

“And, of course, all of this must be discussed in Sherlock’s absence. That’s what a skip-level meeting is, a forum for employees to freely discuss any unresolved issues without, ah... interference or intimidation from their manager... Also, it’s important to show the troops the company cares about them before... sagging them with unpleasant news...”

* * *

Back in the conference room, Molly slides out of the conference room at Sherlock’s insistent, crazy-eyed beckoning. Streams of Irene’s low, honeyed tone filter out, mixing with John’s mellow voice. Sherlock’s neurotic obsession with knowing what’s going on inside is taking over him, apparent in his messy hair and his shaking fingers and constant clenching and unclenching of his jaw.

Molly crosses her arms, the conference room door slightly ajar behind her. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Quiet! I’m trying to listen.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right, I’m going back in.”

But as soon as Molly beats her retreat, Sherlock grabs her tiny wrist in one smooth move and pulls her away, keeping a watchful eye in Irene’s direction. The conference door closes shut, and Sherlock lets out a frustrated grunt. “What’s John saying about me?”

Molly shakes his grip off but cowers under his glare. “I’m not supposed to say. Irene said—”

“Screw Irene!” He nearly whisper-shouts, and then has an idea. “Call Philip’s landline.”

“What? Why?”

“Keep your mobile on call and go back in. That way, I can hear everything.”

She shoots him a disbelieving look. “You serious?”

“Should have bugged the hell out of the conference room like Nixon!”

“Molly?” Irene’s sharp voice rings out. Sherlock and Molly turn to notice all employees watching them, some amused, some bemused, but mostly exasperated.

“Molly, don’t go in!” Sherlock seethes through clenched teeth, but Molly, torn between obeying her boss and her boss’ boss, chooses to defer to seniority, reluctantly dragging her feet into the room. Before the conference room door shuts, Sherlock, in a burst of manic energy, slides in after Molly. This time, Irene loses her carefully cultivated composure in outrage.

“Sherlock! I thought I—”

“Yeah,” Sherlock takes an empty chair and pulls up next to her, “I’m here to say something.”

“You’re not allowed in here, Sherlock!”

“A company runs on the efficiency of communication—”

Irene scowls at him, “What are you...?”

Sherlock glares at her. “I think we all agree that communication is key.”

Exasperated, Irene takes a break, shrugging in defeat. She’s really had it with him, but Sherlock smiles charmingly, pretending to ignore her. Sherlock’s offhand manner makes John watch on with worry, as if dimly aware that it will only take a minute for the situation to escalate to a confrontation.

“Thank you,” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, “As I was saying, communication is important. But we can’t have that if even one person is left out of the loop—”

Irene heaves a tired sigh. “Sherlock, this meeting is—”

“Did I interrupt you when you were speaking?”

“Yes, you did, several times—”

“So you can afford me the same courtesy.”

“Get out, Sherlock.”

“Well, I’m their boss—”

Irene clenches her jaw, her glare fierce enough to cut through steel. “And I’m _your_ boss!”

That shuts Sherlock up. John covers his mouth before he can gasp, his eyes widening in amused shock. Irene has finally pulled rank in front of Sherlock’s subordinates, and if Sherlock has any semblance of self-respect, he’ll have to leave the room. Which he does, with his tail between the legs.

* * *

Sherlock is outside the conference room now. This time, not only the door is closed, but the blinds are drawn too. Sherlock is growing comically paranoid and jittery by the minute. He paces around, drumming his fingers on the nape of his neck restlessly.

“It’s not a good idea, having _her_ with them. With John, in there,” Sherlock shakes his head, “I can’t find out what she is saying to them. And I _have_ to know! Can’t be anything good... No, why would they ever say anything good about _me?”_

Something strikes him. The corner of his lip twitches downward, and he stares into the distance vacantly as if finding the idea far-fetched. But, in a sudden spurt of decision, he sprints to Philip’s desk and furiously dials the landline. We hear the voice from the other side through Sherlock’s collar mic.

“Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft’s preoccupied voice floats in.

“You’ve bugged all the branches of H&H, haven’t you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft sighs tiredly. “I left a board meeting for this, Sherlock.”

“Yes or no?”

“Why?”

Sherlock pouts indignantly like the hall monitor complaining to the vice-principal. “Irene’s doing a meeting without me, and I need to know what’s going on inside.”

“Wait, let me check… oh yes, I can hear the audio. A bit too grainy for my taste.”

Sherlock flashes a victorious smirk at the camera. “What are they saying about me?”

“I believe this is Greg Lestrade… _‘Sherlock is being troublesome’_, that’s what he’s saying.”

Sherlock frowns. That’s not the way Greg Lestrade talks, at this point, he really can’t trust anybody. “And?”

“And this is Sally Donovan… _‘we can’t work, and he keeps interrupting us with bizarre requests’_.”

The sarcasm in Mycroft’s voice is evident. “Wait…”

“Oh, and this is John Watson,” Mycroft’s voice is now amused, “_‘Sherlock is being very intransigent’_.”

That causes Sherlock’s wide, confident shoulders to droop, uncertain and insecure. “Did John really—?”

“Of course not!” Mycroft snaps. “Don’t be stupid, brother dear. Obviously, I haven’t bugged the conference room of your little branch. I don’t need to do such silly little things to get information about you. Anything else, please let my assistant know. Andrea, are you on?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock frowns. Why’s there a third person eavesdropping?

“Good. Please take any messages from Sherlock and relay them to me _after_ the meeting is over.”

With a beep, Mycroft disconnects the line smoothly before Sherlock can even slip in another word. The day’s progression has gone from good to bad to worse. Sherlock turns to the camera, paranoia eating away at him.

“This isn’t good. God knows what Irene is saying in there, to all of them, to John, about me. Seems I can’t trust even her… Of course, they’re talking about me, about Philip, about this stupid rotten mess he left behind. I need to know! I _hate_ not knowing!”

Sherlock turns back towards the conference room windows. The closed blinds stare back at him mockingly.

“I need data!”

* * *

Back in the conference room, the discussion between Irene and the employees has got livelier. Irene has somehow made them come out of their reticent shells.

“... It’s troubling,” Sally, at the opposite end of the long table from Irene, indicates to the room in general, “when—and I think I speak for everyone in the room—our concerns are waived off as inconsequential or met with apathy. It makes me feel more uncomfortable speaking my mind.”

Irene is sitting with a small box, anonymous chits around it. It’s labelled as ‘suggestion box’. The particular chit she’s holding up says _‘not open to ideas’_, no name signed underneath it. Her face is grave. It’s obvious Sally’s talking about Sherlock. She doesn’t seem particularly uncomfortable with speaking her mind, but her point is not moot.

“That’s very true, Sally, and I’m sorry if the anonymous suggestion box is the only forum this particular employee found. I’m sure we managers can do more from our end to improve communication within the food chain. Still, meanwhile, you must remember that no matter what, no matter the issues, our offices are always available and our ears open to suggestions. Let’s move on.”

Irene takes out another chit and chuckles.

“It says _‘time wasted on meetings’_. Bit ironic, that.”

There’s a smattering of polite laughter in response.

“I’m sure you’ll find _some_ meetings very productive. Like this one, for instance. It keeps us accountable, and _that_ is very important.”

John yawns subtly behind the back his palm. He doesn’t seem to agree.

Irene takes out another chit. “This one says _‘improve IT support’_. I agree, but meanwhile, we as employees should adhere to the standard IT usage practices: no personal usage, avoiding phishing and malware emails and not clicking on—”

Greg raises a hand. “Irene, as fine as those practices are, the server issue didn’t arise because of that. Suffice to say, the issue will keep recurring and what we need instead is a dedicated IT team for a timely response, so our billable hours aren’t lost every time.”

Irene lets out a tired breath. “I’ll look into that. Next one.”

The next chit she picks out has some writing on it. It makes her scowl and she throws it away dismissively. Mrs Hudson, on Irene’s left, subtly leans forward to read it.

It says _‘don’t sleep with your boss’_. Clearly meant for Sherlock.

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. She’s fixing herself a cuppa, frowning.

“Two hours of Irene’s management-speak! Did you see how she kept putting the onus on us rather than improving things on their end? Are we the only ones with responsibilities towards H&H? Don’t _they_ have any towards us? That’s what I hate about managers so much!

“What...? Oh, who wrote _that_ chit?” She chuckles, “I did not if that’s what you’re asking.”

She turns back to walk out of the kitchen but stops in her tracks when she notices Sherlock at Philip’s desk, watching her longingly. She lets out a tired exhale.

“Poor lamb,” she tuts at the camera, the corner of her lip turning down in sympathy, “Look how sad he is. He knows we’re discussing him inside. Doesn’t Irene realise? The easiest way to make Sherlock obsess about something is to ban him from it!”

* * *

In the break room, Sherlock looks torn between a packet of crisps and soda water at his eye level in the vending machine. The small, solitary, circular table on which he’s seated looks meagre, depressing, even so with the lighting in there and the lack of the usual office sounds. His lunch box is unopened.

“I have never been so bored in my entire life,” he rolls his eyes at the vending machine, “I tried to see what the mechanics in my office were doing, and they closed the door in my face after we had a... disagreement about one of their girlfriends’ marital status. Then I went down to the warehouse and tried to drive the forklift... Apparently, you need a license to do that. Don’t know why.”

He shifts in his chair. “The drove me away too when I ‘jammed’ the forklift into a false wall… ugh, I didn’t _jam_ it! It would’ve come out in a few minutes, and they didn’t even let me try—”

“Hey.”

We pan to the break room door. John’s standing there, his lunch bag in hand, looking pleased. Sherlock glances at the camera, his shoulders tensing, expression guarded.

“Meeting’s over, I see.”

“Yeah. Almost dozed off,” John sighs tiredly, “So, lunch out here with your worker bees today, eh?”

And before Sherlock can say anything, John makes a beeline for Sherlock’s table and settles down next to him, making the dull greys of table surprisingly bright and inviting. Sherlock looks up at the camera, thinly-veiled panic in his eyes. He clearly hadn’t expected John to join him.

“Are you implying I’m a queen?”

John’s lips quirk up in a flirtatious smirk. “Well, you do have a penchant for drama so...”

That makes Sherlock attempt a small, careful smile.

“Never expected you to eat salad for lunch,” he taps on Sherlock’s lunch box, “In fact, I’ve never _seen_ you even eat your lunch.”

Still seated, Sherlock quickly selects a packet of crisps from the machine, unsure of whether to dig in or bolt from there. At last, he decides to resign himself to his fate. “That’s because, as you pointed out, I usually eat in my office.”

“Well, you shouldn’t eat alone,” John nearly reaches out to touch his arm, but pulls away at the last moment, “it’s nice to have you out here and not cooped up in that box.”

Despite himself, Sherlock’s lips pull upwards slowly, like a crack appearing on the great icy covering of a winter lake. “I suppose.”

“It is. And I don’t think we’ve ever had lunch together.”

“We have. Don’t you remember the sales calls?”

John looks up at Sherlock, mouth ajar, thrown off-guard by the memory: a day that was theirs and yet wasn’t. In the little table, their knees are nearly touching, and their arms could almost brush, if not for an inch of no-man’s-land between them. Sherlock scans John’s face for a long moment before he lets his eyes drop to his lips. John licks them longingly in response.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks away the unguarded look and straightens in his chair, composing himself. Irene is standing in the doorway, and John steals a furtive glance of her as if feeling guilty and exposed.

“Irene.”

“When you’re done with... _this_,” she throws John a suspicious look, “I’d like to sit down with you. We have things to discuss.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk. The post-lunch slump is hitting him hard, and sleepiness and boredom don’t do much to alleviate his situation either. However, John feels momentarily reprieved when he hears Sherlock’s baritone voice floats in from behind him.

Following his beacon of hope, he turns to steal a glimpse of Sherlock’s office to follow the source but is met with the uninspiring sight of repair work going on inside. He groans, remembering, and turns to the conference room.

Sherlock and Irene are deep in discussion there, and the door is a little ajar. Sherlock’s back is to John, legs stretched to the fullest, while Irene’s squared shoulders and crossed legs scream of confrontation. She gazes past Sherlock to spot John watching them absentmindedly. John looks away as Sherlock notices what caught her attention. Irene lets out a sigh and rises from the chair to shut the door sharply, obliterating the last line of vision between him and Sherlock.

John turns back to the desk and finds the camera on him. He purses his lips, his figure small and miserable and guilty. He exhales tiredly and picks up the handset, dialling.

“Hey, mate,” his voice wavers at ‘mate’ as if unsure of that title, “Sorry, I meant boss. I just... I keep looking at your office to say something to you, and then I remember you’re not there. Is it weird now that Philip’s gone and you’re actually at his desk, we’re doing less stuff? Anyway, I’m bored. Come back.”

He keeps the handset down and peers at Philip’s desk. Philip’s landline beeps and the voicemail indicator flashes red.

* * *

Inside the conference room, Irene and Sherlock are huddled around a landline phone. Irene is on a call, while Sherlock is left to guess from the little streams of conversation from the other side and Irene’s unperturbed face. He warily mouths ‘Mycroft’ at the camera, pointing to Irene.

The call cuts with a beep and Irene turns back to Sherlock with an exhausted sigh. Sherlock scans her face intensely, “It had something to do with the board meeting, didn’t it?”

“What?”

“Your call. Mycroft told me he’d be in a board meeting all day. Something has been decided in there, and it’s not good, is it?”

Irene purses her lips and interlaces her fingers together. “Sherlock, I hope you understand the meaning of a ‘skip-level meeting’.”

“You mean banning me from my own conference room.”

“This isn’t a joke. The mood in today’s meeting was less favourable than I expected.”

That puts the wind out of Sherlock’s sails, but he composes his facial expression admirably. “I’m not concerned with _opinions_.”

“I think you _are,”_ Irene fixes him with an equally piercing gaze, “I can see you trying to work out who could’ve said what. I can see your neurosis, and I can see how much it hurts your ability to do your job! You’re fixating too much on the employees and not enough on your responsibilities! You were described as apathetic to suggestions on improvement and the general growth of the branch! People brought up how you waste their time with meetings and… miscellaneous—”

“Who was it? Was it Sally?” He chuckles silently, his voice a resentful hiss, “I bet it was Sally.”

“It doesn’t matter who, Sherlock!” Irene raises her voice warningly, “Stop thinking about which employee thinks what and does what and wears what or had what for breakfast—”

“I can’t turn it on and off like a tap!”

“Learn to!”

Sherlock lets out a dramatic huff, “_Why even bother_ saving the branch if these people here are not even going to...?”

He realises what he’s saying and closes his mouth shut. His forecasted ‘why even bother’ moment has arrived far earlier than he had expected. For one second, Irene looks almost triumphant, tempted to lord it over him but she takes a step back, choosing a more placating, diplomatic avenue.

“Sherlock, Jim’s branch had 4% organic growth last quarter. You don’t want to lose out to Bowes Park, do you?”

He frowns, bemused. “Since when did you resume caring about H&H?”

Irene shoots the camera a clandestine look and gives Sherlock a meaningful glare as if he’s overstepped his limits. Of course, limits mean nothing to Sherlock, so he doesn’t even bother to react.

“As you’re aware, there was a board meeting today.”

Sherlock blinks. “Oh, you’re changing the subject _now?”_

Undeterred, Irene carries on. “The real reason I’m in Ferndale today, Sherlock, is to ensure any unpleasant news didn’t leak like it did the last time we told you about redundancies. And I hoped we would break it gently to your employees, together.”

Sherlock straightens up in his chair, attentive. “So you’re...” he makes a throat-slitting motion, “the branch?”

“Not yet, hopefully, but I can’t say for sure. It seems we’ve not been able to meet our year-end targets despite the measures we took in other branches, so we’ll be putting people on furloughs company-wide.”

The seriousness of the situation strikes Sherlock. His employees are in trouble. “Well, that’s not exactly news, is it?”

“No, but we were hoping we wouldn’t have to take this step till April next year... Now, we’re a little below our targets, so I’m sure we won’t need to furlough too many. Two a week every week for December should be enough, I think. That’s eight people total, including yourself.”

Sherlock does a little calculation in his head. “That’s not exactly ‘a little below the targets’.”

Irene smiles wryly, despite the situation. “No, it’s not... Well, it’s already four pm now, so I think we should let the troops know tomorrow.”

Sherlock frowns. “They’re already bogged down.”

“Yes, but since we spent a majority of the day discussing your shortcomings,” and Sherlock lets out an indignant sigh at that, “they might blame _you_ for it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to break this unpleasant bit of news to the rest of the branch managers.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock pouring himself some coffee in the kitchen. John strides in through the door, and Sherlock tenses automatically. Sherlock’s involuntary reaction doesn’t go amiss by John, who frowns but ignores it.

“So,” John begins conversationally, and Sherlock glances at him like a cat at a cucumber, “everything okay?”

“Yup!” Sherlock pops the ‘p’. John chuckles silently at that.

“The discussion looked pretty intense, you and Irene,” John tries to come across as casual but fails terribly. Sherlock tenses up even more.

“What do you mean?”

“Just…” John shakes his head uncomfortably, “you two—”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow defensively. “What about it?”

“Nothing,” John turns away, opening the refrigerator to dissipate the tension a bit. Sherlock hangs around, one step towards John, two steps back. At last, John closes the fridge with a dull thud.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to—”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, his words overlapping with John’s, “You should know—”

“She’s good for you; you two are good together, I can see—”

“—we’re instituting company-wide furloughs... wait, _what?”_

John jerks back in surprise. They had clearly been talking—and worrying—about two different things. Sherlock looks like a deer caught in the headlights; he wasn’t supposed to say that, and yet he’s blurted it out in one moment of weakness from the combined frustration of the skip-level meeting, Irene’s feedback and the news of furloughs.

John inhales sharply. “Furloughs?!”

Sherlock glances at the camera awkwardly. “Er...”

“When did this—why didn’t Irene... in the meeting today—?”

“The news wasn’t confirmed. John, I have to ask you to keep this to yourself—”

John’s face is red with barely-contained outrage. “When?”

“John—”

“When, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks down, not meeting his eyes. “December. Only December,” Sherlock adds when John throws his arms up in frustration with a guttural groan, turning around to grab the fridge’s edge to steady himself. Sherlock pouts miserably, reaching out to comfort him but retracting his hand at the last minute.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John hisses, “It’s the bloody holiday season!”

Sherlock tucks his chin into his chest in guilt. “We couldn’t meet our year-end—”

“You’re not even going to pay people _salaries_ during Christmas?! That’s despicable!”

“You know, it’s not exactly _my_ fault—”

“You know, this is what I hate about you managers!” John spins around, snarling, his eyes wild, his jaw clenched, and Sherlock jerks back in shock; he’s never seen John this furious, not even when John shouted at him previously for a myriad of other reasons, “You don’t care! You never communicate! You knew all along, and you sat at that desk with me, and you never said a _fucking_ word! Irene sat at that table with us and discussed a whole array of stupid things and never even gave us a fucking clue!”

To emphasise his point, John angrily punches the edge of the kitchen counter, barely missing the coffee machine and the microwave. He lets out a wince and a quiet curse.

“I got to know half-an-hour ago!” Sherlock snaps.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?! I’m not stupid, y’know!”

Sherlock scoffs, trying to mask his fear at John’s violent outburst with cool words. “If people weren’t stupid, and had worked instead of obsessing over Irene and me, maybe the company could’ve met the year-end targets!”

John lets out a humourless laugh. “Obsessed?! With you? Go into the men’s room and look into the mirror, _boss!”_

Still gasping for breath, John and Sherlock stare each other off, faces contorted with rage, fists shaking, their hurtful words finally hitting and sinking in. John is the first to look away, his face ashen, biting his lower lip in regret. Sherlock inhales sharply, hurt bleeding through his facade of nonchalance.

“You’re sales staff,” Sherlock mutters quietly at last, “you won’t be furloughed.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice cracks, shoulders drooping in misery. Why isn’t Sherlock punishing his insubordination? “I shouldn’t... you shouldn’t—”

“Please don’t reveal it to the rest of the office,” Sherlock’s cool, detached tone makes John wince, “There’s a mandatory call tomorrow morning. Mycroft will explain everything.”

Without waiting for a response from John, Sherlock turns on his feet and smoothly slips out of the kitchen. It’s only then that John drops his head into his chest, gulping, self-loathing.

* * *

By six-thirty pm, the entire office—except for Sherlock and Irene—has left. They are about to walk out of the office together when a dejected Sherlock notices the voicemail indicator on Philip’s—his—landline blinking red. He frowns at it.

“You go. I have some messages.”

Irene nods curtly. “See you tomorrow.”

Sherlock settles into Philip’s desk and lifts the handset to listen to the voicemails. We can hear the automated voice float in through his collar mic.

“You have seven unheard messages...”

There’s a beep, and then:

“_Hey, mate_,” John’s mellow voice floats in, so different from his roar during his fight with Sherlock, “_Sorry, I meant boss. I just... I keep looking at your office to say something to you, and then I remember you’re not there. Is it weird now that Philip’s gone and you’re actually at his desk, we’re doing less stuff? Anyway, I’m bored. Come back.”_

Sherlock’s expression softens a bit, and he pushes the voicemail button again. Second voicemail:

“_Hey, Sherlock. It’s John. Again. Sally keeps looking at your desk. It’s weird, but I think she misses Philip. Why on earth she would do that, I have no clue. I guess you’d know.”_

Sherlock gazes at John’s desk with hungry longing and presses the button again. Third voicemail:

_“Hey, I moved my computer so I can’t see Sally’s head. It’s working. If I ever have to quit paper selling, I’d probably have an illustrious career as a very specific type of interior decorator.”_

Fourth voicemail:

_“Honestly, at this point, I could have a career at anything. But if I ever left, what would I do with all this useless information in my head? ‘Tonnage price of manila folders’? ‘How many sheets to a ream’?”_

Sherlock lets out a chuckle at that.

_“I know what you’d say to that. ‘John, your brain is a hard drive, and you’re filling it with rubbish which makes it harder for you to reach the stuff that matters’... Hey, now that you’ve ruined my Christmas surprise for you, you’re not getting gifts anymore.”_

Sherlock lets out a small, pleased smile at that, which soon turns wistful.

Fifth voicemail:

_“Yes, Mr Cooke, let me get that for you... absolutely, we can stock you up by the—Okay sorry, Irene was hovering near my desk, and I needed to look busy. So, thank you.”_

Sixth voicemail:

_“Hey, the office people were asking me to join them for drinks at the pub ‘round the corner. I’d... go if you’re up for it too. There’s a chance they’d be pissed, and you’d be bored, but I think it could be fun. They have a nice dartboard and, as you know, I have an excellent aim.”_

Seventh voicemail:

_“Hey, Sherlock. I’m sorry I... uh, said that to you. You know I’ve... I get angry about stuff pretty quickly, and I’m sorry... I’ve been working on it since I got back from Afghanistan. I don’t know... I thought I had it under control, but obviously not as much. If it’s any consolation, my knuckles are bruised, Mrs Hudson has offered me some herbal soothers and I’m pretty sure they contain pot so... I’m sorry.”_

Sherlock puts back the handset into its place and props his forehead against his palms, breathing deeply, shakily, in a moment of vulnerability he’d never usually let others see. As minutes drag on like molasses, Sherlock takes off his jacket, stretching his arms, and dials John’s mobile number into Philip’s landline. He waits till he gets John’s voicemail.

“John. It’s Sherlock. I know I usually text but...”


	14. H&H Christmas Party: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas descends upon Holmes & Holmes. Sherlock does things that one can expect only from Sherlock but is unexpectedly drafted into party planning duties. But a problem arises which pits the survival of the branch against its employees, and Sherlock must gut one to save another.

In the conference room, Molly, Sally and Mrs Hudson are all pink in their cheeks, but for unrelated reasons: Molly is pink with excitement, Sally with irritation and Mrs Hudson with inebriation. The office is resplendent with colourful Christmas decorations: tinsels, bells, candy cane and snowflake shapes, fairy lights and glass ball ornaments.

“Today’s Christmas Eve,” Molly begins cheerfully, “so, we’ve got our office party. It begins at three pm. We’ve got the tree coming in shortly, and this year, we’ll all decorate it together because the spirit of Christmas lies in togetherness! Or is that too… tacky?”

“It’s not the ‘spirit of Christmas’,” Sally sighs. “I don’t have time to decorate, and neither does Martha, so we’re asking everyone to put in effort. If you want to enjoy a great party, you’re gonna have to _work_ to make it great.”

Molly’s cheery mood dissipates. Mrs Hudson tries to chime in, “We’ve got the food. I made brownies—”

“Oh, did you, Martha?” Sally whips up on her at once, “Did you also order a stripper and fifteen bottles of vodka so you can properly sabotage the party?”

Mrs Hudson pouts with guilt. “Everybody likes my brownies.”

“I brought biscuits! Same category! That’s why I told you to bring cheese crackers! You always do the opposite of what I say!”

Mrs Hudson looks down at her feet, feeling small, “I forgot, sorry.”

“Anyway,” Sally snaps, “are they _normal_ brownies or are they like the ones you auctioned on Red Nose Day?”

Mrs Hudson’s regret instantly turns into offended outrage. “Those weren’t pot brownies—!”

“Oh, please, Martha!” Sally puts up a disdainful hand, “We all know what you do on Thursdays! And you wonder why you forget things!”

Molly gives the camera an unamused look that says ‘_yup, that’s how these things usually go here’_. “We’ve also got Secret Santa and a raffle later… and Sherlock allowed us to invite guests. Well, by ‘allowed’ I mean I texted him and received no reply. He’d have said ‘no’ if he disagreed, right?”

Sally shakes her head in disagreement at the camera but doesn’t say ‘no’.

“Also, _that_ is my lovely new addition to the party,” Molly points to sprigs of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon in the archway of the conference room door, “I got the idea from a cousin who—”

“For the record,” Sally puts her palms up, “I’m not on board with this.”

“It’s fun.”

“This is a workplace. It leads to sexual harassment.”

Molly looks away, miffed.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the break room, wearing a Christmas-patterned tie over a white shirt. He’s radiating pure joy.

“So, Sherlock’s coming back today from furlough. The last week was hell; Philip came back, and he’s changed… for the worse, so yeah, I’m… relieved to have Sherlock back. And I know Sherlock can’t wait to be back too. When he came to know Philip had returned, well… you know how Sherlock gets when he fixates on something.”

He indicates to a gift-wrapped box. “I got Mrs Hudson for Secret Santa, so this is for her… Oh, this?” John denotes to a smaller, unwrapped package. “Well, Sherlock spoiled the present I had in mind, so I got him something different.”

He takes out a coffee mug which has ‘World’s Best Boss’ inscribed on it.

“I know it’s somewhat cliché, so I didn’t stop at the mug. I’ve stuffed it with some inside jokes. For example, this is my old driving license picture.”

John holds up a passport size photo between his fingers. It’s a very young, very 90s John, looking taken aback by the sudden glare of a snooping camera.

“Sherlock nicked my driving license once and laughed for two minutes straight. I think it might have something to do with what an ugly duckling I was. Of course, now I make the cover of _British Vogue_ regularly as a middle-aged college-dropout-slash-paper-salesman, so there’s that.”

He pulls out more trinkets from the mug.

“This is my Colonel Mustard clue card from when Sherlock made us play Cluedo. My lesson? Never play Cluedo with Sherlock… And this is the pinot noir bottle cap from our sales call lunch at Sarah’s restaurant; he’d got so mullered he couldn’t pronounce the ‘b’ in ‘obsidian’, and it was hilarious, so I saved this.”

Chuckling, John pulls out a folded sheet of paper. “And this is the health plan form Sherlock circulated: my first prank on him… The pen he used to break into Philip’s desk… And the lighter from the day he almost set fire to the office. I know it technically belongs to him, but I don’t think he’ll declare all this predictable. Right?”

John looks down at his present for Sherlock with uncertainty.

“Oh, also, the customary Christmas card,” he holds out a white envelope with ‘Sherlock’ written on it, “I’m on the fence about this, actually, because... this isn’t as funny as the rest... but we’ll see.”

John’s smile disappears. He purses his lips as if internally debating whether he’s revealed too much of himself.

“…What?… Yeah, of course, I’ve invited Sarah to the party, and she even wanted to come by. She remembers Sherlock because… well, he’s Sherlock, and my best friend,” he lets out a nervous chuckle, “Oh, you want to know what gift I got her…? Uh…”

It hits John after a while, and he lets out a silent groan, burying his face in his palms. “I forgot about her. Dammit Watson, aren’t you a terrific boyfriend!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly at reception, slotting H&H Christmas cards into envelopes. The main door swings open and Sherlock slides in, looking far too happy and excited for a man coming back to the daily tedium of working in an office after having spent a week away. A look at a large, white, barred-tailed goose in his grip makes the source of his delight obvious.

“Merry Christmas!” his singsong baritone vibrates with barely-contained excitement. He dumps the dead goose over the reception desk in front of an unsuspecting Molly, who had absentmindedly begun to return his greeting. She steadies herself with a quiet yelp and a frown.

“No! Why… why are you—why did you bring that here?!”

The entire office turns at her frenzied exclamation and freezes at the sight of the dead bird in the workplace. Sherlock grins, oblivious to Molly’s discomfort as she struggles to secure her things from underneath the goose. “Don’t worry. It’s dead. And fresh, might I add.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sally demands, stunned, “Get it out of here!”

“Relax, granny,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “You told me you blew the budget for the party. So, here I am, with the solution.”

“The solution?!”

“Yes. We are going to roast this goose and eat it. I bought a carving knife specifically for the occasion, which I have in my bag here,” Sherlock taps on his briefcase, “I’m quite good with animals, actually.”

“You know,” Sally presses her lips together in amusement, having got over the initial shock of having a dead bird in the office, “when _normal_ people brag about being good with animals, they usually don’t talk in the context of carving them up and roasting them for food.”

“Ah, Sherlock,” comes an exasperated voice from the main entrance. It’s Greg, who trudges up to him, his weariness in complete contrast to Sherlock’s bright mood. Dark circles underneath Greg’s eyes give his face a ghastly appearance. “We talked about this. Animals in the office is a no-no.”

“No, Greg, that was different. This one’s already dead. I accidentally ran over it.”

“You _ran_ over a goose in the middle of Central London?!”

“Yes. They insisted I dispose of it because I couldn’t leave it on the road. It’s a Christmas miracle!”

Greg lets out a tired sigh.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room.

“One day, Sherlock came in complaining about a speed bump on a national highway... Wonder what he ran over then.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to reception. A jury of peers has assembled around Sherlock and his dead goose. Only John is amused by the events.

“The meat has a delicious, smoky, rich flavour. Plus, I _have_ to compare the goose skull with the one I’ve got at home.”

Molly frowns. “You’ve got a goose skull at home?”

“A mallard,” Sherlock looks puzzled as if she’s the one who’s said the outlandish thing. “Why would I compare a goose skull with another goose skull? Grow a brain, Molly.”

Molly opens her mouth to reply, but she’s too dumbfounded to make sense of Sherlock’s words. Greg shakes his head tiredly.

“Sherlock, you cannot keep that here.”

Sherlock is outraged. “That is ridiculous. And against the spirit of Christmas!”

“Come on, Sherlock. We’ve been at it for half-an-hour now.”

Sherlock gazes at him with puppy eyes, like a child negotiating for his favourite toy. “It’s Christmas, Greg.”

“It’s a dead animal in the office. You can’t—”

“Greg, please. Please?”

Mrs Hudson takes pity on Sherlock who, in anybody’s living memory, has never uttered ‘please’ and meant it. “I like goose, and it’s already fattened up. Is it so bonkers if we eat it?”

“Yes, it is,” Billy nods, “it’s bonkers. And bad luck, running over a goose on Christmas Eve. The goose represents the spirit of Christmas. Something bad’s about to happen.”

Everyone turns to Billy with dirty looks and weird grimaces. Greg presses his fingers to his eyes.

“Alright,” he shrugs, making Sherlock brighten up, “go clean it in your car.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Philip desk clump. John is on the phone, on hold. Bored, his eyes wander and settle on the window through which one can see light snows fall: the first snow of the season. John finds himself watching, mesmerised by the view.

“Hey,” he happily remarks out loud, “it’s snowing.”

“Aw, John,” Philip drawls patronisingly, “Do you like the first snow of Christmas, little girl? Can you not wait to have a hot chocolate and cuddle up with your daddy and tell him about all your Christmas dreams?”

John gives the camera an unamused look, his mood considerably worsened.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip Anderson in the conference room. He’s still the same man, but there’s something indescribably different about him.

“Four weeks ago, I had an incident at work and worse, Sally left me when she found out about my now-ex Jacqueline. I’d say it was the lowest point of my life, but at least I’m not bottoming anymore! Well, I’m not topping either; Jackie and I broke up,” he lets out an awkward laugh.

“But now, I’m a changed man. Anger management taught me to express my frustrations healthily, so, I’ve chosen sarcasm as my outlet. It cost me my relationship with Jackie, but after Sally left, I just couldn’t be with Jackie anymore. She emasculated me and made me unhappy. And it took me seven years, a public meltdown and anger management to realise it.”

The difference is apparent now. The old Philip was cocky and obstinate. The new Philip is cocky too, but he acts like he’s been reborn with the smugness of an all-seeing prophet.

“So, I’m back, and I’m single again. And I _will_ win Sally back.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Philip desk clump.

John tilts his head. “Let me guess: you always lost in a snowball fight in school, didn’t you?”

Philip’s expression sours. “It’s not even real snow, John. It’s a dusting!”

“Looks real to me,” Sherlock slides in between them with a snide smirk, sitting on the little glade within the mess on John’s desk. John raises a smug eyebrow at Philip as if to say ‘my posse is here’. “Welcome back, Philip. Or should I say ‘Judas’?”

Philip rolls his eyes and turns away to his computer, pretending he’s too busy to indulge Sherlock. “How clever. Oh, you haven’t been sitting on your hands waiting for me to get back just so you could call me ‘Judas’, have you?”

“Oh, no, no, no, Philip,” Sherlock smiles faux-sweetly, “I haven’t been waiting _that_ long. Might I say it struck me two days after your girlfriend left you?”

Philip clenches his fist to control his startled response. John looks up at Sherlock in surprise, “Wait, _him?_ The girlfriend thing is real?”

“Was real,” Sherlock corrects.

“I left her,” Philip enunciates every word in an irritated growl. Sherlock assesses him with thinly-veiled amusement.

“Oh, yes, indeed. How did that feel?”

Philip frowns. “Leaving her? That’s none of your business!”

“No, no, telling the truth. I know you’re not used to it.”

Philip turns away to his computer without a rebuttal, pretending he’s too mature to indulge Sherlock. Sherlock almost looks victorious but realises he has been left alone. With John.

“Welcome back, Sherlock,” John tries tentatively, hopefully. Sherlock offers an awkward nod, as if unsure of how to respond, and turns away to gaze pensively at the snowfall.

But Philip’s disengagement from the conversation widens a chasm between Sherlock and John that had already opened with the former’s one-week furlough. John purses his lips, the hold music still playing in his ears. He looks away as if berating himself for being so bloody inept, and puts the handset down.

“John? Sherlock?”

A thankful sigh escapes John’s lips, as he’d been hoping for an end to the torturous silence. They both turn to a harassed-looking Mrs Hudson, who’s biting her lip nervously.

“The man who was supposed to deliver the tree called me,” she whispers, “They’ve delivered it to the wrong house. Well, not the wrong house. I mixed up the numbers on our address.”

Sherlock frowns. “So, no tree?”

“Not unless someone goes out and gets one. I don’t think they’d deliver one in time.”

John shakes his head. “But how… I drive a sedan. How would we even bring it here?”

He glances at Sherlock, but he’s already lost in deep thought. Mrs Hudson grows more and more distressed by the second.

“Can you boys manage something? I don’t want Sally to find out about it. Party planning always puts her in a foul mood, and I’m already a little bit tipsy from it.”

John’s eyes narrow. “From her… foul mood?”

“From whatever it takes not to pull her hair out.”

John nearly chokes in surprise. Sherlock grabs Mrs Hudson’s shoulders with uncharacteristic warmth. “Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. I’ll get the tree.”

“And some party snacks too?” She adds hopefully, and Sherlock lets out a silent groan, “Apparently, getting both brownies _and_ biscuits wreak havoc on the tongue palate and I blew through most of our food budget on the drinkies.”

John notices Sherlock deflate at the mention of shopping and steps up to the occasion. “Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock and I can get the snacks _and_ the tree.”

Sherlock staggers a little off John’s desk. “Y-you’re coming?”

John purses his lips, deflating a little and glancing at the camera, clearly stung by Sherlock’s dismay at his initiative. “Well, you need two people to carry the tree.”

Sherlock evaluates him somewhat distrustfully and spins around on his heel so fast it nearly gives John whiplash, “Greg!”

At his desk, Greg, still in his coat and clutching his phone like dear life, turns at Sherlock’s loud summon. “Yeah?”

“Christmas shopping,” Sherlock knocks loudly on John’s desk twice, “you’re coming with!”

“I have work—” Greg begins, but Sherlock stops him in his tracks before he can formulate an excuse.

“NO, you don’t! You’ve been on the phone ever since you sat down at your desk!”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re coming!”

John’s eyes narrow. “He doesn’t _have_ to come…” But Sherlock shoots him his best intimidating glare, and he takes the cue to back down. Mrs Hudson gives the two of them an affectionate pinch on the cheeks.

“Thank you, boys! You’ve saved this old bat’s life!”

And she leaves them standing there, unsure of their little trip and what it can mean.

* * *

The festively decorated Christmas shop in Brixton has quite many people there, bundled up in layers of warm clothing browsing through aisles of assorted fake trees and some pine and spruce trees in the backyard. There are a couple of kids running about, playing hide-and-seek between the trees. The snowing has stopped, and the streets outside have already been cleared by a prompt shop worker.

Jingle Bells is playing softly in the distance. Sherlock, flanked by a resolute John and a distracted Greg on the phone, bristles at the music and scowls at Greg, who scowls right back at him.

“You two go ahead,” Greg explains in a preoccupied tone, “I’m on an important call.”

* * *

Camera cuts to an indignant Sherlock, alone, in the parking lot of Christmas shop. His hair is dishevelled from the wind and his nose pink from the cold, much like Rudolph the reindeer.

“Greg is useless, like every other Human Resources rep! First, he tried to take away my goose. And now, he’s quibbling with his hopeless ex-wife instead of being the buffer between John and myself!”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and a sulking Sherlock.

“Surviving?” John quips.

Sherlock snuggles into his overlarge coat like animal sneaking off into hibernation. “Barely.”

John nudges Sherlock in the ribs. “We got the snacks. Just the tree remaining. Hang in there, okay?”

“Crackers and ginger biscuits and Santa hat cupcakes,” Sherlock grumbles, “How low must I stoop for Jesus’ two-thousandth birthday party?”

“Aw, diddums!” John lets out a chuckle: it’s free and honest and impossibly fond, “Well, Jesus thanks you, you bastard!”

Sherlock smirks, his previously tense shoulders relaxing when he detects warmth even in the most obscene thing John has ever said to him. “He better.”

* * *

A store helper approaches Sherlock and John near the aisles of Christmas trees, “Hi, there. How may I help you—?”

Sherlock turns on the charm, “I know more than you. Leave.”

The store helper looks alarmed at the glare and scuttles away when John gives him a sympathetic stretch of the lips. Nuzzling his elbow into the side of a bristling Sherlock, John turns back to inspect a pine tree twice his height.

“This one’s nice, innit?” John tries sniffing the leaves but ends up sneezing instead. Sherlock, who has been a grumpy, complaining ball till now, bites his lower lip to stop himself from snickering. John, however, notices his amusement and punches Sherlock lightly on the arm.

“I don’t know how to do this, you git!” John nearly yells in mock outrage, making Sherlock burst out in laughter. “And you’re no help at all!”

“Oh, no, do it again. Smell the tree again like the botanical authority you were pretending to be!”

“It tickled! The pine needles went up my nose!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, smiling one of those unguarded smiles that make him look impossibly young. “Brilliant title for your thesis, John! That should make the cover of _Nature_!”

John shakes his head, trying to look affronted and failing. “You watch it, Sherlock!”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll shove snow down your shirt.”

Sherlock throws him a mock quizzical look. “How old are you?”

“I’m prepared to carry out my threat even when I turn hundred!”

* * *

Camera cuts to John inside the shop, pink from the cold. Outside the glass doors, we can see Sherlock trying to sniff the pine trees, and giving a massive sneeze as a result.

“Thank God he’s over his sulk from the morning. I had almost forgotten how easy it is, being with him… Easy as in fun… ‘Course, he’s not “easy”; he’s an annoying dick and a totally obnoxious, whiny baby but…” he shakes his head, a silly, joyful grin plastered on his face which is entirely at odds with his description of Sherlock. “I feel like I’m sixteen when I’m with him.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the interiors of a supermarket adjacent to the Christmas store. Sherlock and John are in the cashier queue and Sherlock, for once, is waiting with uncharacteristic patience instead of kicking things out of frustration, sufficiently engaged in conversation with John.

“_Secret Santa?”_ Sherlock whispers, frowning, “So, people have invented a scheme to receive gifts so they can cope with the childhood trauma of finding out that Santa was fictional?”

John stares at him in disbelief. “I gather you didn’t get your person any.”

Sherlock scowls darkly. “_My_ person?”

“The person you’re assigned to. I got Mrs Hudson a teapot.”

“A teapot? How dull! I expected better from you, given the present you were planning for me.”

John flushes hotly. “Well, you’re not getting gifts from me anymore. I learnt my lesson last time.”

Sherlock spins back to him, eyes scanning and the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Aren’t I?”

John glances at the camera sideways, pursing his lips and crosses his arms. Lying isn’t John’s strong suit. “Nope. Nothing from me.”

Sherlock presses his lips together. “Of course.”

John relaxes upon being relieved from Sherlock’s scrutiny. “Now go get your person a gift before the queue ends.”

“How will I find out who ‘my person’ is supposed to be?”

“Check Molly’s texts. She texted me mine.”

Sherlock scrolls through his phone and lets out a delighted snort so loud the other people in the queue turn around to glare at his impertinence. John pats him on the back, apologetic expression ready for distribution for anyone Sherlock might have offended. “People are looking, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mutely holds up his phone to John. There’s only one recognisable name in Molly’s text: Philip Anderson. The irony of the situation is not lost on him, who nearly laughs out loud.

“You should make it a prank.”

Sherlock shoots him an approving half-smile. “You read my mind.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the supermarket parking lot. Sherlock and John haul the tree into a pickup truck while Greg, saddled with the snacks, trails behind them, still arguing over the phone.

“I don’t get it, Anne!” He snarls, and John and Sherlock exchange awkward glances, “Why—no, absolutely not! Alyssa was supposed to be here this Christmas—oh please, those are your mother’s words! No…! What’s _that_ supposed to mean…? Hello? Anne?”

Greg squeezes his mobile in his grip as if trying to shatter it into a thousand pieces, letting out a pained groan. And notices John and Sherlock watching him cautiously. He heaves the purchases to the truck, dragging his feet. Jaws clenched and lips pressed into a thin line, Greg does not meet their eyes.

“You okay?” John tries.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something but closes when John gives him a pointed look.

“Uh, Greg?”

Greg begins to arrange the Christmas supplies in no particular order. John glances at Sherlock, unsure if he should pursue the matter any further.

“It’s none of my business,” he tries one last time, “but if I had a daughter I couldn’t have over for Christmas, I’d be upset too.”

Greg attempts a consolatory stretch of the lips, a halfhearted smile that is grateful around the edges. John flashes Sherlock an affirmative look, and Sherlock picks up on that, trying to come up with a response as empathetic as John’s.

“I don’t foresee myself having children, but if I… if I don’t have Mycroft around for Christmas, I’d… no, I’d definitely be doing him a favour.”

Greg bursts into quiet chuckles, but it subsides quickly. “Alyssa doesn’t want to spend Christmas with me… She told her mum I’m not as much fun and she wanted to be with family. I don’t know… I thought I was enough family for my daughter.”

“Want a smoke?” Sherlock offers. John opens his mouth to object but pulls back. Greg bites his lower lip, resisting the temptation, but shakes his head in the end.

“No, she’d just hate me more.”

“Bring her to the office party,” John suggests, “She’ll have fun decorating the tree, and there are some fun snacks. Show her you can be fun.”

“Eating is not a fun activity, John,” Sherlock points out, “And neither is ‘decorating’ a tree.”

John’s eyes narrow. “So you’d rather have her watch you carve a dead goose?”

“... Yes?” Sherlock mutters dubiously, already beginning to reconsider. “Is that bad?”

John drops his unamused expression at the uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice. “Well, she’s a kid.”

Sherlock nods, processing the information. Greg gives them both a sad smile and slides into the truck without another word.

* * *

Back at the office, John and Sherlock barge in with the tree, with Greg in tow, who leaves the supplies with Molly after a quick word of explanation and shoots off out the main entrance.

“Oh, you got the tree!” Mrs Hudson’s face lights up, “How lovely, put it over here.”

They place the tree’s base near the stationery inventory cupboard and hoist it up with crude exclamations and grunts. People abandon their work to appraise it, and John and Sherlock brush off bits of the tree sticking to their clothes. Mrs Hudson steps up to evaluate and turns to them, grateful, “The snacks?”

“With Molly,” John nods reassuringly, “We got you, Mrs H—”

“Sherlock?”

The three of them turn to see Molly holding up the reception landline. “Yes?”

“Irene for you.”

John takes an involuntary step back, and the motion isn’t missed by Sherlock. Happy times come to an end far too soon. “Tell her I’ll call her back.”

“She called several times while you were gone.”

Sherlock lets out a disgruntled sigh. “I’ll take her in my office.”

* * *

Sherlock takes his seat behind his desk before picking up the handset. “Irene.”

“I sent you and the other managers an email. Check.”

Sherlock reads rapidly through said email. And rereads it, this time slower. He frowns, his eyes narrowing.

“Today?!” He breathes out at last in disbelief. “Are you sure? It’s Christmas Eve!”

“It’s a business, not a charity.”

“I’m absolutely not doing this! I’m not laying someone off on Christmas Eve.”

“Sherlock,” Irene begins carefully, “you know it’s necessary. It’s an impersonal decision, purely budgetary. We can’t start the first quarter with—”

“Yes I’m aware, but not on Christmas Eve, for God’s sake! Literally!”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Irene’s voice is tetchy now, “The decision’s been made. You knew this was coming—”

In a burst of indignant frustration, Sherlock bangs the handset down on the landline too hard. He tugs at his hair, letting out a guttural groan. The office outside looks too cheerful to have a downer like that dumped on them.

“Turns out, Billy’s superstitious nonsense was right. Bad day to run over a goose.”

He clenches his fists, gathering himself.

“If I play this smartly, I could lay someone off without a significant blow to morale, because obviously, morale is important in this wretched office. This is a risk assessment exercise. Shouldn’t be too difficult… Or I can do a full review of the branch’s budget, see if we can cut somewhere else. Tedious work, but shouldn’t take me more than an hour.”

It hits Sherlock. “Ugh, no, we’ve already done that; there are no corners to cut anymore. Right then, conservation of morale remains our only option—”

There’s a knock on the door, which swings open to reveal John, “Sherlock, you coming?”

“For?”

“Apparently, we’ve got to decorate the—what’s wrong, are you okay?”

John’s perceptive gaze startles Sherlock into nearly dropping the papers from his grip, but he keeps his face composed and his voice flat. “I’m fine.”

Although unconvinced, John relaxes. “Alright. And what about—ahem… your ‘present’?”

“Present?”

John lets out a conspiratorial smirk. “Secret Santa for… you-know-who.”

Sherlock’s battle armour drops and his eyes soften. “Right. I just got handed some work so can you…?”

John nods, “Right. See you later,” and closes the door behind him.

Sherlock lets out a frustrated growl; the little confidence he’d garnered before John’s interruption is gone, and conflict and worry furrow his brows. Conflict unprecedented in a man who’s usually sure about what he needs to do to save his branch, and by extension, his employees.

But this time, it’s the branch versus one of his employees. And Sherlock must gut one to save another, more so on a festive day.

“This now ceases to be simple economics,” muttering rapidly, Sherlock springs from his chair and pulls out binders, “The uncomplicated part is finding out who’s to be laid off; that’s mathematics. Informing a person about the termination of their employment is of somewhat mediocre difficulty because even high-functioning sociopaths like myself don’t take joy in destroying the hopes and dreams of other human beings.

“The real challenge, however, is informing any of these people out there that come next year, they’ll be out of a job, seeing as I know them personally. For four months, yes, but on an average-person-scale, that might as well be four years.”

“And John…” the frown in Sherlock’s brows deepen, “if he reacted that badly to furloughs, how’d he react when he… Out of the question, he won’t find out. And before push comes to shove, I’ll have worked out a solution.”

* * *

Huddled around the Christmas tree, we see Sally on a call while she passes Molly decorations. Philip, on the other side of the tree with Mrs Hudson and John, steals anticipatory glimpses of her, but Sally doesn’t notice until her eyes wander his way by accident. She clenches her jaw and looks away pointedly, and Philip, with a murmur to Mrs Hudson, hands her whatever he had been holding and makes a beeline for her.

“Sally.”

She pretends not to hear him, but he crowds up space around her until she can’t ignore him any longer.

“I’m talking to one of our warehouse distributors, Philip if you don’t mind.”

“It can wait.”

Sally gives him a death glare and goes back to her phone. “Mr Pegg, can I call you right back…? Yes, thank you…” she cuts the call and crosses her arms, waiting for an explanation.

“Not here,” Philip eyes the lack of privacy, and Sally scowls.

“Whatever you have to say, say it here.”

“In the kitchen,” Philip growls, and Sally acquiesces, marching in the direction of said kitchen. The make their way away and Sally, grumbling about hunger, throws open the fridge door, only to groan. Philip raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Sherlock, that’s what’s wrong!” She points to the fridge. Sherlock’s dead goose is cosily stuffed in there, between a cup of ramen and a bottle of orange juice. Philip lets out a sound halfway between a disbelieving chuckle and a disapproving grunt.

“I miss you, Sally.”

Sally rolls her eyes and shuts the door on the goose and Philip’s hopes of reconciliation.

“You are amazing, really!”

“I am?”

“Oh, yes! For thinking you can waltz back into the office after three weeks in therapy—”

“Anger management,” Philip corrects.

“—and think three little words will win me back!”

Philip looks stung. “I broke up with Jackie.”

“Oh,” Sally scoffs, “bully for you! And thanks for giving the subject of my nightmares a name, since you didn’t have the balls to tell me earlier. Thanks very much, Philip!”

Philip’s jaw falls to the floor. “You have nightmares?”

Sally purses her lips, looking murderous. With a contemptuous glare, she shoots past him and out the kitchen, composing her expression into something more appropriate for Christmas. Philip takes off his glasses and lets out an exhale as if already plotting his next conversation with her.

* * *

Sherlock has buried himself in binders, charts and files in his office. His suit jacket and shoes and socks lie forgotten in a corner. Walls are littered with notes and pages, like a detective investigating or a student crash-coursing his way through a semester-long syllabus the day before exam.

“So, I analysed the budget again, and the branch is maxed out, so cutting corners elsewhere is not an option,” Sherlock looks disconcerted, “That means I _have_ to let go of someone or corporate will do it for me. Of course, I could play it that way and let Irene choose instead, but there’s no telling who she’d target. And if she targets…”

His gaze drifts away in the general direction of John’s desk.

“No, I must be the butcher of this goose. That way, I have control. Next: the employee in question. There are two employees in performance improvement. Sensible thing is to fire one of them, which I’ve selected. And this particular person went on furlough this week, which is advantageous because…”

Sherlock collects the papers from the ground and returns to his desk, “… it allows me to take care of the timing. Christmas might not mean a lot to me, but even I know it’s in poor taste to lay someone off today while the drinkies go on in the other room, right? So…”

He dials his landline furiously, “I’m going to ask for an extension using the particular employee’s furlough as an excuse. That buys me a week to find anything I might have overlooked and hopefully avoid the entire layoff situation altogether. Like a hostage situation. Win-win.”

Sherlock winks and flashes a victorious smirk, having managed to find a solution out of chaos. The phone rings on speaker and a woman—not Irene—answers.

“Irene Adler’s office.”

“Hey, um…” Sherlock begins charmingly, but the act wilts away as he struggles to remember Irene’s assistant’s name, “Sherlock Holmes here.”

“Oh… Irene’s in a meeting. She just wants the name of the employee you let go.”

“I need to speak to her.”

There’s a pregnant pause as if Sherlock has gone off-script and Irene’s assistant doesn’t know how to respond. “I just need the name of who you’re planning to let go.”

“There’s something I need to discuss with her first.”

An awkward beat. “I know Irene wanted the name.”

Sherlock looks at the camera murderously. “Just ask her to call me back,” and then whispers to himself, denoting to the landline, “Wish I could fire her… she’s half the reason Norton left Irene.”

“Hey, I’m still here—” Irene’s assistant begins, but Sherlock picks up the handset and slams it back, cutting the call. The handset clatters to the floor, and Sherlock awkwardly scrambles to rescue it.

* * *

In the break room, Sherlock and John are munching on their own lunches, engaged in effortless, desultory conversation, punctuated by John’s witticisms and Sherlock’s mischievous quips. John shows something to Sherlock on his mobile, and Sherlock lets out a laugh.

“By the way, why are you eating so late today?”

Sherlock steals a wary glance. “I had… work.”

“Irene making you work on Christmas Eve too?”

“Well, she doesn’t have a life beyond the office, so she assumes I don’t too.”

“Oh, you do? Because I have yet to find out how that’s like.”

Sherlock gives John a faux-serious look. “You should try it. It’s a novel concept, still in beta testing.”

John’s phone buzzes. He throws Sherlock a grin before checking it and lets out a fond ‘aw’. “That’s Henry’s two-year-old son,” he shows Sherlock the picture on his phone, “Apparently, he just learnt to say ‘banana’. Adorable, isn’t he?”

Sherlock, however, goes still and his face is very white. “Y-you talk to Henry?”

“Well, not usually. I suppose Henry’s desire to keep tabs on the office during his furlough has made our day-old friendship blossom like spring’s first flower… You alright?”

Sherlock’s lower lip trembles before he masks his unguarded face and his panic altogether. “Yes. Adorable baby.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock in his office, hunched over his landline phone. The notes and pages on the walls have been taken down and dumped into the dustbin, and the office looks less haphazard. But the same can’t be said for Sherlock, who is far more agitated, stressed and disturbed than during lunch.

The landline is on speaker, which connects with a beep. “Irene Adler.”

“Irene,” Sherlock barks into his phone, his voice a nervous high, “I need more time.”

“That’s not possible—”

“It has to be,” Sherlock steeples his palms together and rests his forehead against them; knuckles white as a sheet stand in stark contrast to his raven curls, “The employee in question is on furlough right now.”

“So? Just call them and inform them! Better to do it over the phone; saves you the trouble of doing it face-to-face.”

Sherlock scowls at the landline. “That’s despicable!”

“Since when do _you_ care about what’s despicable?”

Sherlock opens his mouth for a retort but closes it after careful reconsideration. “I’m asking till the month-end. One week. Let him come back to the office, and I’ll do the necessary.”

Irene lets out a sigh. “Sherlock, we want the severance and other liabilities done by the end of December. If we grant you an extension—”

“If I lay Henry off today, he’ll have tomorrow and Boxing Day to agonise over his ordeal. Not to mention the rest of the employees,” Sherlock glances in the direction of John’s desk, “who’ll surely hear about it and lose faith in management. It’s a foolish thing to do!”

Silence falls as Sherlock finishes his exposition, silence that speaks and mocks more than words can. Sherlock clenches his jaws as if he's familiar with that brand of silence but refuses to be the first to surrender and break it. On the phone, Irene finally lets out a small chuckle.

“You know, when you were five or six, you found an injured bird in your family home. Its neck was broken. It was dying.”

That catches Sherlock off-guard. “How do you know that?”

“Instead of taking it to your groundskeeper who would insist on killing the animal to spare it pain,” Irene continues, unperturbed, “you hid it in the shed from everyone and didn’t return even for supper or breakfast. Starved yourself for three whole days trying to save the bird.”

Sherlock nearly slams the handset back into the landline. “Did my father tell you this?”

“You thought you had read enough books to treat it, but only succeeded in delaying the inevitable and prolonging the bird’s misery.”

Sherlock glares at the camera, pouting in indignation but for one second, the mask of irritation slips, revealing a far younger, far more vulnerable expression which hardens back into stone as soon as it appeared. The Sherlock that happily brought in a dead goose he had hit with his car just a few hours ago and the present Sherlock ashamed of his childhood optimism are poles apart.

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“Good, because according to your daddy you then brought the rest of the household down with the flu you caught from that bird, which died regardless... Apparently, you used Mycroft’s report cards as kindling to set fire to your frustrations after that,” Irene’s voice is both amused and exasperated. “Wasn’t that your first fire?”

Sherlock bristles in annoyance. “I miscalculated the amount of fuel for the cremation.”

“You?” Irene snorts, “Funeral for a bird?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Is it too much to expect a coherent point from you ever since your divorce?”

The cavalier mention of Irene’s separation brings a hard edge to her voice. “My point is cut off the head in one stroke and move on without hard feelings. Because it seems to me you’re deliberately delaying Henry’s layoff just so you can play the hero!”

“That’s ridiculous! My _feelings_ don’t matter here!” Sherlock adopts a distasteful grimace at ‘feelings’.

“I refuse to believe your motivations are so selfless,” Irene hisses back, “Remember, whether you fire him today, or on December 31st, Henry will still hate your guts. You’re just prolonging his—and your—misery. So let him go today, and enjoy your holiday scot-free. Or don’t. I’ll be sending you the exit clearance documentation anyway so keep an eye out.”

Sherlock gives a derisive snort. “Never liked Christmas anyway, so what does it matter?”

And before she can say anything else, Sherlock bangs down the landline, the facade of determination wilting away from his pensive face. Bites his lower lip and gazes into the office space outside. The fairy lights are on, and people are walking about. Faint streams of music are wafting in, followed by sounds of chatter. The Christmas party has begun, and guests are trickling in.

Sherlock rests his head on his desk atop folded arms, letting out a tired sigh. His fingers dig into the skin of his arm, leaving angry welts and drawing blood. In a swift, decisive move, he whips out his mobile and proceeds to dial a number, but hesitates to call. He shakes his head but calls nonetheless, waving the cameras out. We comply but continue to film through the windows until Sherlock draws the blinds on us.

“Porky,” comes a hoarse voice from the other end of the call.

“Shezza,” Sherlock answers smoothly.

“The fuck you want?”

“You still... selling?”

“Not ter ya. You fuckin’ set the coppers on me las’ time!”

“Not voluntarily, Porky.”

“And now? Where the fuck you been this past year?”

“Porky, listen, I need just a gram, just for tonight. I’ll come get it—”

“Not selling to ya, Shezza, you hear me?”

However, an interruption causes us to pan camera. John Watson and Sarah are standing there, both smiling beatifically. “Is Sherlock in…? Okay, cheers!”

He knocks on Sherlock’s office door and throws it open. Upon spotting the couple, Sherlock stops mid-sentence, his mouth hung open, caught red-handed. John glances sideways at the camera, half pleased, half suspicious.

“You remember Sarah, right, from the restaurant?” John grins proudly. Sarah, looking splendid in a flowing red dress, smiles warmly, extending a hand towards a motionless Sherlock. He gazes from her hand to her face blankly, and then to John, completely taken aback.

“Uh...” Sherlock manages to utter and promptly ends the call. John’s eyes narrow, and he silently denotes to her awkward hand suspended in mid-air.

“You invited… _guests_?” Sherlock peers at the two of them, at John’s hand hidden in the small of Sarah’s back.

“Yeah. Molly said it was okay.”

Sherlock takes her hand and shakes it briefly. She puts her arm back around John’s shoulders, “Lovely to meet you again, Sherlock. John’s told me so much about you.”

Her tone is somewhat teasing, making John chuckle nervously, “Nothing bad, don’t worry, but Sherlock, what are you still doing inside? Party’s already started!”

“Oh, I don’t think he likes parties,” Sarah observes, and Sherlock attempts a polite smile.

“True, I don’t.”

“Nevertheless, he’s coming out,” John taps twice on the desk and cocks his head in the direction of the office. Sherlock looks from him to his girlfriend and lets himself be escorted out. As if on cue, ‘Fa La La’ begins to play from the conference room. The Christmas tree looks fantastic, the food smells good, and the ambience is festive.

Sherlock glances from John to the camera, his back unnaturally stiff, his fingers contorting as if John's carefree, oblivious manner beside him were a hallucinogen to Sherlock’s frazzled state of mind. A drop of sweat trickles down Sherlock’s temple, and he wipes it away with swift, furtive movements, much like cutting the wires of a ticking time bomb.

John slips one arm around Sarah and grasps Sherlock’s shoulder with another, happy and content. “Merry Christmas!”


	15. H&H Christmas Party: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Christmas party, Sherlock's desperation to hide the management's decision from the rest of the employees takes a toll on him. John has a revelation. Philip is met with unpleasant surprises.

In the conference room, the Christmas party is in full swing. What had begun with humble carols and respectable chatting/munching on scrumptious brownies has devolved into stilted solo line-dancing by Mrs Hudson, and Molly downing shots to David Bowie’s Let’s_ Dance_. The sun hasn’t even begun its nightly descent.

Serving as the bartender, Billy delivers a cosmopolitan to nobody in particular, seemingly knowing what he’s doing. Except for a wince at the aftertaste, Molly seems quite good at holding her liquor. She brandishes her shot glass at the camera in delight.

“Mrs Hudson was my Secret Santa! Aren’t these great?”

Molly notices something past the camera and sobers up. We pan to another corner where John and Sarah, red cups of punch in their grip, stand close, engrossed in conversation.

“I got the mistletoe specifically for Sherlock and John,” Molly whispers, and we pan back to her face that screams of _oops-I-screwed-up. _“Not _her_ and John.”

She turns away as if looking for someone, and comes to a halt when she spots Sherlock brooding outside the conference room, in a hidden, poorly-lit corner of the office near Accounting. His eyes follow John and Sarah, fingers scratching the phone in his grip, lips pressed white together, face blanched and miserable.

Sherlock spots Molly’s gaze and blinks away the look in an instant, marching away into the kitchen and out of sight.

Meanwhile, Philip is fast at work at his desk with admirable dedication, even throughout the party. He gives the gathering a nasty glare before returning to his computer. Bluish glare from the screen illuminates his pale face, much like a coder on the verge of a breakthrough. The odd sight catches John’s wandering eye, and he beckons to Sarah.

“There. _That’s_ Philip.”

“Oh, he’s real? I thought you were making him up!”

John chuckles. “Come on, I’ll show you what I have to deal with every day. Just be an accomplice.”

Sarah’s eyes narrow. “To his murder?”

John pitches his voice a throaty low. “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

* * *

“Philip. Meet Sarah. Sarah, this is Philip, my charming desk-mate.”

At Philip’s desk, papers are strewn, files are open, and a desk clock indicates the time as quarter-to-five. There are notes with scribbles all over, numbers encircled and documents religiously highlighted and black coffee gone cold in his Star Wars mug. There’s a little red package on his desk, neatly tied with a green bow with the label ‘For Philip’ in Sherlock’s spidery scrawl. John sits down on his desk, peering into his files, which Philip impulsively shoves out of sight. John grins impishly as if he’d expected that reaction.

“Hello, Sarah,” Philip gives Sarah a curt smile, before continuing in his rigid, self-righteous monotone, “And John, don’t look at my sales forms, if that’s quite alright with you!”

John narrows his eyes. “I don’t steal others’ clients, unlike _some_ people.”

“I let you handle AIG, didn’t I? Can’t you be happy with that alone?”

John emits a humourless laugh. “You don’t _let_ me handle AIG. You stole it from me by running a bloody paper shredder and then had to hand it back when you went to therapy—”

“Anger management!” Philip corrects, seething red as he realises the irony in his statement. He packs the papers into a neat stack before offering Sarah a warmer smile. John nods in approval.

“That’s better. Now, why are you still at your desk?”

“It’s not five yet. My working hours are eight-thirty to five.”

As if to emphasise his point, he pulls up Excel but minimises it again, realising John is still there to peep into his work. He turns the monitor away from John’s line of vision so that no one can spy on his accounts.

“I see,” John taps on the gift box, “What’s in there?”

Philip clicks away at his mouse to express his apathy towards the conversation. “Haven’t opened it yet.”

John picks up the package, tossing it in his hand. On impulse, Philip reaches out to snatch it back, but John reacts blazingly fast, stretching his arm so Philip can’t get at it. Sarah peers incredulously at the childish interaction between the two adult men, especially when one of them is an army veteran.

“That’s mine! Give it back!”

Philip nearly doubles over on John’s lap before he’s able to retrieve the gift. John pushes him away, chuckling.

“From someone special then?”

Something resembling hope flashes in Philip’s eyes, warm and tentative, only to be blinked away and masked behind false indifference.

“In case it didn’t enter your tiny brain, John, the significance of a Secret Santa is so that the person giving the gift remains a ‘secret’! A secret, geddit?”

John throws up his hands, amused. “Never struck me.”

Philip tears into his present and removes the box cover, growing excited with each second. Which comes to a screeching halt as a small metal catapult enclosed inside the box tosses a snowball right between his eyes.

Sarah chokes on her punch, and John, who had been watching him with rapt attention, bursts into laughter, giddy with delight. He smacks the table, doubling over to clutch his stomach, and turns to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in his office. And sobers up with a groan upon finding said office empty. That should have happened in Sherlock’s presence, with John to witness Sherlock’s eyes gleam with the promise of Philip’s entertaining reactions.

“Dammit, John!” Disorientated by the icy attack, Philip splutters between violent coughs, wiping the melting snow off his wet red face, “A snowball?!”

Mirth returns to John’s face to a lesser extent. “It’s not a snowball, because it was only a ‘dusting’, right, little girl? Isn’t that what you said when it was snowing in the morning?”

“That was mean, John,” Sarah shakes her head, reproachful. “You could have injured him!”

John’s mouth falls open in outrage at Sarah’s defection to enemy lines.

“There’s no way that hurt; he’s acting! And I had Mrs Hudson!”

“It was Sherlock, wasn’t it?” A fuming Philip demands, emboldened by Sarah’s unexpected sympathy.

“Wasn’t me, that’s all I know!” Huffing, John’s eyes dart around to look for Sherlock, growing restless by the second. Finding himself under the combined scrutiny of both Philip and Sarah, he stomps away into the kitchen, an otherwise well-planned prank gone wrong in the wrong company. Philip, despite having his ego bruised, looks quite pleased with his victory.

That is, until, his eyes wander towards the reception and spot a smitten Sally in the company of a tall, dapper man who leans way too close into her personal space. A man who is Idris Elba and Mahershala Ali rolled into one.

Jaws clenched, Sally meets Philip’s aghast eyes, and her pleasant manner wilts when she notices Sarah next to him. Sarah, abandoned by her date, straightens up at Sally assessing her like a knight before jousting with the opponent. Her discomfort is all the indication Sally needs to summon the zeniths of her charm as she saunters ahead of her date to flash Sarah a winning smile.

“Hello, I’m Sally. Welcome to our madhouse!”

Sarah relaxes a bit, shaking Sally’s hand. “Sarah. Nice to meet you.”

“This is Brandon,” she indicates to the man accompanying her, who politely smiles at a bemused Sarah and a dumbstruck Philip, “we’ve been seeing each other for quite some time. Not as long as the two of you, perhaps?”

It dawns on Sarah why Sally is acting so familiarly with her despite being a total stranger. “Oh no, I-I’m with John!” She lets out a nervous chuckle, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go look for my boyfriend who’s abandoned me at a Christmas party in _his_ office!”

Something akin to relief crosses Sally’s otherwise imperturbable expression before it settles back into granite. “Oh, my apologies. I assumed you were Philip’s—ah well, hope you enjoy, and a word of advice?”

Sarah’s eyes narrow. “Yes?”

“Sniff the brownies before you eat them. Trust me.”

With a final look in Philip’s direction, Sally escorts her date away, revelling in the distraught look that parading her date like a prize horse brings about on Philip’s face. Her hips sashay in triumph, and with every step she takes away from Philip, his face grows more and more ashen.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the kitchen, alone.

“Satisfied? Me?” A self-satisfied smirk spreads across her face, “You’re mistaken… I was not fishing for details on Philip’s love life… Why would I? He’s nobody to me.”

* * *

In a dark corner of the conference room, a sulking Sherlock, finally pulled into the party by John, alternates between trying to keep himself busy on his phone and glaring at the amount of happiness in the room. Roxette’s _It Must Have Been Love_ plays on the karaoke machine, and one of the warehouse workers sings along, slightly off-key. It’s a slow song, but the beats are too loud and jarring for Sherlock, who glances at the camera in long-suffering distaste.

Adjacent to Billy’s makeshift bar, a little disco ball atop the karaoke machine bathes the darkened, cosy party in rays of red and green and yellow. H&H Ferndale’s environment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an office any more, gradually regressing into a KTV nightclub on a Monday evening. The usual suspects are engaged in their routine activities: Molly keeps rushing out to answer phones ringing at the reception and returning to party central, only to encounter a different person to kiss under the mistletoe every time. A completely inebriated Mrs Hudson has finally settled quietly in a corner, rocking a leg to each beat. Sally and Brandon dance away in close quarters. John and Sarah, drinking punch, chatter away like happy newlyweds.

It’s Sherlock’s worst nightmare coming true: an ordinary, boring party with alcohol and noise and mingling and 80s music in an utterly normal office. On Christmas Eve. With the threat of layoffs looming in the background. And John kissing Sarah under the mistletoe right in front of his eyes.

“Look at them,” Sherlock grumbles, cocking his head in John’s direction, “drinking ‘awesome’ punch like boring, straight people. Should’ve got Irene here to… nope, that’s not what I…” he clears his throat, grimacing as if there’s a bad taste in his mouth, “Have to stop thinking about her… about the whole layoff business… was there something in the punch?”

Sniffing his cup, Sherlock glances at Billy with distrust. “He could have spiked it. Billy knows how to.”

So when Philip Anderson appears in front of him, blocking his direct view of a very couple-like John and Sarah, Sherlock stirs in his chair, grabbing on to the armchairs, slightly disorientated but very much welcoming the distraction.

“Oh hello, Philip. I see you received your present.”

Philip clenches his jaw and plops down on the chair next to Sherlock. “I knew it was you.”

His irritation is a much-needed defibrillator for Sherlock, who’s instantly invigorated from his previously gloomy mood. He lets out a loud guffaw. “Got any ice?”

Philip takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I refuse to engage your infantile attempts at belittling me.”

Sherlock nearly springs out of his seat in glee. “That’s because you’re too much of an idiot to respond in kind!”

“Don’t talk to me that way—”

“Idiot!”

“You’re being very unprofe—”

“Idiot!”

Philip waves an impassioned finger into his face, teetering on the edge of his restraint. “I’m warning you—”

“Idiot, double times the idiot with an extra side order of idiot,” Sherlock snaps back, a careless smirk dancing on his lips, “Anyway, why aren’t _you_ doing normal people things like kissing under that parasitic bunch of twigs?”

Sherlock points at the mistletoe in the conference room door archway with a cheeky smirk. Philip bristles at that.

“Stop reminding me of it.”

Sherlock lets out a snort. “Of which one?”

Philip glowers at him. “It was just a joke to you, wasn’t it?”

“Everything is a joke. Plus, kissing underneath the mistletoe is tradition, Philip,” Sherlock deadpans, trying to hide his amusement behind his cup of punch, “And we are nothing if not traditional.”

“Oh, please!” Philip scoffs, “You made me look like a bender in front of Sal—everyone!”

“Well, you bend over more than I ever would so…”

Philip shoots him a glare. “I hate you.”

Sherlock chuckles softly. “If you’re interested in my feedback, you should invest in mints. Kissing you was more horrifying than Molly or Sally.”

“It wasn’t me, it was the brownies!”

“Sally ate them too. How would you explain the freshness of her breath?”

“You’re an arse.” Philip bares his teeth and clenches his fists as if exerting supreme effort to not hit Sherlock. Sherlock blinks and looks down in regret, realising he’s said something very insensitive to someone who’s so clearly heartbroken.

Philip’s irritation dissipates at the uncomfortable silence that falls between the two of them. Bathed in light as green as his jealousy, he steals a glimpse of Sally swaying away with her date, pretending to be Julia Roberts in the song. Sherlock catches his line of sight and rolls his eyes at how openly and longingly Philip looks at the two of them.

“As I said, you’re an idiot.”

Philip’s eyes narrow, but before he can get a word in, Sherlock overrides him, “She’s not interested in him. Look at the sleeves of her blouse, for goodness’ sake!”

Philip turns to Sherlock abruptly. “What the hell do you know about it?”

But Sherlock, aware he can withhold crucial information just to torture Philip even further, sips on his punch quietly, enjoying the pure relief from irritating the highly reactive man. Philip growls in response to Sherlock’s mocking silence. “Fine, you know what? Snowball fight, right now!”

Sherlock gapes at him as if he has grown another head. “Escaping the girlfriend torture?”

“No, I’m challenging you.”

Sherlock snorts. “Piss off!”

“What? Scared?”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes with an incoming text. He heaves a mighty sigh upon reading it and rouses himself from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket. “No, I’ve got work to do and a narrow window of time to complete it, so I’m rather endeavouring to not waste any more in casual chitchat with a confused old gasbag like you.”

Philip frowns at the abrupt change in Sherlock’s mood as the latter begins to make his way through the chattering, mingling throng in front of him. As if realising his time might be better utilised in work, he too abandons his idle post in the party. “Yes, that reminds me, I’ve to type my weekly report up. Best get to it.”

Sherlock throws Philip a droll stare as the latter pushes past him. “Please don’t. I hate your stupid reports.”

Philip turns around in agitation. “Oh please, you probably toss them into the dustbin right away!”

“Yes I do,” Sherlock snaps back, “but even the mere thought of seeing your name in writing makes me want to pop analgesics into my mouth!”

Philip storms away. “I’ll give you more reasons to pop analgesics one of these days!”

As Sherlock is about to storm off the conference room and back to the safety and isolation of his office, someone tugs at him. He jerks back to see John’s grip on his arm. In a distant corner of the conference room, we see Sarah abandoned once again, but this time, her keen eye is on Sherlock and her boyfriend, who has rushed to cross all this distance and left her lovely company to check on his manager.

John lets go of Sherlock at once as if he’s been burned and steps into the conference room doorway. Streams of soft rock from _Every Breath You Take_ by The Police begins to play on the karaoke machine. That, combined with the semi-darkened, disco-like environment with colourful light beams and fairy lights, reminds one of high school proms in American films. Until Mrs Hudson begins to sing along with the karaoke track, ruining the romantic mood.

A worried John scans Sherlock’s face. “Hey, you okay?”

Sherlock brushes him off, his previous apprehension finally catching up to him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Splendid, actually.”

John isn’t buying it. “You don’t seem fine.”

“Your girlfriend looks lost without you. Go back to her.”

John lets out a tired sigh. “Sherlock, come on. Stay.”

“And do what? Stuff my face with crackers?”

John puts up his hands in surrender. “Alright, I’m sorry I was a bit busy but—”

Sherlock scoffs but John soldiers on in the face of contempt. “Don’t stay by yourself, you hear me, Sherlock? You were fine in the morning. What happened?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but no words come out. He simply stares back at John, blue with the suffocation his abject helplessness brings, unable to voice his innermost thoughts, unable to confide. He looks like he really wants to admit it all to John, but he doesn’t. He looks down at John’s clenched fists, a reminder of John’s violent reaction to furloughs during the holiday season, and shuts himself off.

* * *

When the phone rings rudely in the reception, Molly rushes to pick up on the fourth ring.

“Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly... yes, he’s available on Thursday... Sure, what time would be most convenient for you? Twelve o’clock works... Okay, thank you and Merry Christmas to you!”

Molly lets out a sigh and turns to the camera, a happy smile on her pink face. “Well, the mistletoe is a hit, isn’t it? That ought to teach Sally a lesson. Though I’ll say it was certainly fun to see how riled up she got when Philip kissed me... not that I _like_ Philip, oh no, dear god no. It’s just well... it was funny. But not as horrifying as Sherlock.”

Her expression grows bemused. “I didn’t think Sherlock was the willing kisser type, but there was something just odd about it. I mean, obviously, it was a joke to him, but it was still horrifying. Maybe because he’s probably gay. Kissing a gay man isn’t sexual harassment, right…?”

She trails off as the fax machine behind her whirs to life, beeping and rapidly printing out several papers in succession.

“It’s a fax from Irene,” Molly points at the fax number. “Goodness, she’s still working.”

As she studies each incoming page and pieces them together, her eyes fly wide open, and her jaw falls to the floor in realisation.

“This is… it’s a separation agreement,” Molly brandishes the papers at the camera, brows furrowed with worry, “and these are exit clearance forms. There’s only one reason Irene is sending these: someone’s about to get laid off!”

She riffles through the pages once again, ordering them in increasing page numbers. “There’s no name… Maybe they haven’t decided yet…? Is it me? Probably not, the office can’t function without a receptionist…”

Molly takes a deep breath to soothe herself, tugging nervously at her hair. She collects the papers in swift, sure movements and strides into Sherlock’s office. She places the documents in the in-box and arranges a paperweight, preoccupied in her thoughts.

“I would’ve taken the internship instead… had it been a paying one.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and John standing at the precipice of the conference room door. Sherlock is a troubled ball of stress, and John is shut out of Sherlock’s world, forced to peep in like a visitor at an antiquities museum.

“Look,” John perceives Sherlock’s discomfort, “whatever it is, just sit down and think through—”

Sherlock’s upper lip curls in derision, as if John has just insulted him. “You think I don’t think through? _Me?”_

“If the...” John indicates to the party atmosphere in general, “whatever this has become… is too much for you, let’s take a walk. How about that?”

Sherlock scrutinises John with sharp, cynical eyes. “I don’t like the cold.”

John’s eyes narrow. “You love snow.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s frozen acid rain. What’s there to love?”

John gapes at him in disbelief, and then breaks into giggles, shaking his head. Sherlock peers at him incredulously, as if he’s just found a new species that giggle too loudly and inappropriately during serious conversations, but John’s unexpected mirth throws him off-guard, melting his scepticism bit by bit.

Then John looks up at him, squirming red and still laughing, and Sherlock attempts a small smile in return. But someone cuts them off with a war cry of “Mistletoe!” Sherlock and John turn in sync to peer at the offender, which turns out to be Billy, and Mrs Hudson laughing, sounding much like a cat in its death throes.

Startled out of the tender moment, Sherlock glances at the conference room door archway over his head. Sure enough, the guilty parasitic twigs stare down at the two of them, and John lets out a snort. Sherlock begins shaking his head, dazed, eyes wide and terrified.

“What?” Sherlock jerks back, spluttering, “No!”

“You’ve been hogging the mistletoe for too long,” Molly, who had been lingering adjacent in Sherlock’s office, pokes her head out, her mood vastly improved, “Now, you _have_ to kiss.”

Sherlock casts a wary look around; everybody in the conference room is watching him and John in rapt attention, slightly amused. From outside the room, Philip, still at his desk, crosses his arms in jubilation, revelling in the poetic justice of Sherlock’s panic at kissing someone underneath the mistletoe.

John glances around him, awkward at the attention, but shrugs anyway, looking to Sherlock for his blessing. “Uh, I don’t mind. It’s just a mistletoe kiss.”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock shakes his head firmly, and John stumbles back a bit, dumbfounded at the insistent refusal.

“Come on, boss,” Molly is slightly taken aback at Sherlock’s reluctance too, “you already kissed Philip. What’s another salesman?”

Sherlock’s expression sours. “Yes, but that was a j—never mind, I’m done with mistletoe kisses for the evening, thank you very much. Three times is the charm, as they say, and I’ve done my bit—”

But the public outcry is substantial as snickers and yells of “come on, give us a kiss” and “it’s bad luck to refuse” ensue. For a moment, it seems as if Sherlock is going to push John away, but he resigns to his fate, succumbing to cries of “It’s traditional!” and “lighten up, it’s a joke!”. John looks unsure of the situation, at Sherlock’s vociferous opposition, at how the outline of his shoulders is tense as a taut string. He purses his lips in regret.

“Hey,” John leans in slightly, pitching his voice lower, “if you don’t want to, you can just walk away—”

“No,” Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes, “let’s just get this over with and move on.”

“Right,” John shakes his head as if thinking something he oughtn’t think, “ready when you are.”

Without any prior warning, Sherlock leans in for a chaste kiss, and John crosses the distance between them tentatively, his chest expanding as he breathes Sherlock in. The crowd in the conference room goes wild, bursting with raucous laughter and clapping and wolf-whistles. Molly, beside the two men, beams in jubilation, having finally fulfilled her stated purpose of bringing in mistletoe. It’s an odd but hilarious sight for the others.

And then John tilts his head and opens his mouth against Sherlock’s with a gasp, and a blanket of stunned silence engulfs the conference room, smothering the cheers in its terrible, suffocating grasp.

The kiss lasts a few moments longer than any other innocent mistletoe kiss between two colleagues. Mrs Hudson, who had been singing along to _Every Breath You Take_, gapes in shock as John’s hand lingers on Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock’s bottom lip slips past the seam of John’s lips. The rest of the employees have noticed the burgeoning heat between the two men, and the enthusiasm is gone when it becomes clear how non-platonic the kiss is from John’s end.

Just as John’s hand caresses the virgin patch of pale skin under Sherlock’s jaw, Sherlock pulls back, breathless and dazed. He gulps, managing a glare, and retreats into his office, staggering a bit along the way and leaving behind an equally shell-shocked John to pick up the pieces.

John’s eyes fly open as Sherlock tears himself away, and he registers the empty karaoke track of _Every Breath You Take _playing, a testament to how promising the kiss’ beginning was and yet how hollow it ultimately ended up being. Panting, he tries to hide his mouth in an attempt to conceal the deed everybody just witnessed. What should have been a sweet, intimate act has ended up being dragged through the mud in front of judgmental onlookers.

People are left watching John with some degree of shock and cringe. It’s only then that John notices the cameras have recorded his terrible first kiss with Sherlock. Stuck between wanting to leave and wanting to not react in any manner that will only prompt more talk, John goes back to Sarah with his tail between his legs, conflicted and dejected.

Sarah watches him like a hawk, and it’s only after a long, tense pause that John can meet her eyes and flash her a near-confident smile. “I don’t kiss you that terribly, do I?”

Snickers ensue at John’s carefully casual comment, and some tension in the room is dissipated. Sarah kisses him on the cheek affectionately, somewhat amused.

“Well, I do let you kiss me even without the obligation of mistletoe, don’t I?”

John’s face falls, and Sarah realises the unintended hidden meaning behind her words. She places John’s arms on her shoulders and leans into his ear.

“Let’s wait for fifteen minutes, then you can walk me to my car.”

Pretending to be swaying away to the beat of the music with Sarah, John lets out a small chuckle as if to reassure himself—and his colleagues around him—that all is well and normal. That his world hasn’t turned upside down yet.

But just as they turn a little and John—finding the walls staring back at him, can finally get a moment of respite to himself—we see the edges of his facade crack slightly, conflicted and several worlds away from H&H Ferndale.

* * *

“Well, I called it, didn’t I? First day, remember?”

In the H&H parking lot, near Sarah’s red Volkswagen, John’s first instinct is to turn to look at the office, if there’s someone in the windows spying on him and Sarah. Thankfully, there isn’t.

Pokerfaced, John assesses Sarah carefully. Miraculously, she isn’t pissed off about what happened upstairs. She wraps John’s jacket around her for warmth, radiating satisfaction of someone who had been right all along, even at the cost of their relationship.

But when John doesn’t react, Sarah lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Come on, John. You’re allowed to react.”

John shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “That’s what I’ve been doing all my life, innit? _Reacting_.”

Sarah crosses her arms, huffing out an opaque cloud of vapour. “In that case, that was some bloody good reacting, wasn’t it?”

John’s face turns ashen in regret. “I’m sorry I did that in front of you. I’m just—”

“Stop, John!” Sarah toes a mound of snow lying near her car’s tyres, “Don’t make excuses. You always had a thing for him, and so did he. I saw it the first day you two came in.”

John steels himself, resting his back against Sarah’s car. “Sherlock doesn’t have a ‘thing’ for me. Didn’t you see him upstairs? He practically pushed me away!”

Sarah smirks, “So you’re finally admitting _you_ have a thing for him?”

He heaves a long breath and tucks his chin in deep introspection. The silence drags on through molasses, through at least half a Christmas carol playing softly in the distance. John looks up at the skies, as vastly uncharted as the territory in which he’s embroiled with Sherlock now, unable to deny what half a dozen people had witnessed upstairs. Unable to deny losing himself in Sherlock.

“I suppose,” he admits at last, “but it doesn’t matter. What matters is I… that you and I, we’re in a relationship…”

Sarah gives him a look, promptly shutting him off. They’re not. Not anymore. It’s over, and they both know it. John frowns as something suddenly hits him.

“Why aren’t _you_ mad?”

Sarah peers at him questioningly. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know… women get mad when their boyfriends go around kissing other men, don’t they?”

Sarah guffaws at that. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

John punches the car softly, letting out a frustrated exhale. “I mean, fuck Sarah, I’m so sorry for…”

He trails off, not wanting to verbalise it, but Sarah doesn’t shy away from it.

“I suppose you did string me along there. But at least you paid for all our dates, so I got what I wanted out of you.”

John spins around to her in incredulity, as if not believing how the hell he managed to date a woman as amazing and graceful as Sarah. She glances at him, trying to contain her snickers and failing.

“Even if you did spend said dates mostly talking about Sherlock’s newest antics,” she points out, sniggering, and John bows his head low in shame again. They stay there, awkward in their farewell, the numbness wrought upon by the biting cold a welcome distraction. Sarah gives John his jacket back as she settles into her car and fastens the seat belt around her.

“‘Keep in touch’ or ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, which line should I use?” She quips with a cheeky smirk.

Chuckling, John wears his jacket back. “I want to remain friends?”

Her smile turns wistful. “Best of luck, John.”

John nods back solemnly. Another chapter closed. Now for the tricky part: facing Sherlock after everything.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, door closed, cut-off from the rest of the world. Forehead resting on a palm, he stares down hard at the exit clearance documentation: the written reminder of the terrible decision that awaits him. Shirking off indecision, he grabs a pen to fill in Henry’s name and the details of severance but hesitates at the last moment.

“How easy these decisions must be for normal managers,” he glances at the camera, miserable, “who can just take action without having to think, without their thoughts breaking down the dams of their mind…”

There’s a knock on his door, momentarily relieving him from his predicament. Greg swings in, arching his eyebrows in greeting and holding the hand of a six-year-old shy little blonde girl in a cosy maroon quilted jacket. Sherlock frowns at the duo and scrutinises the little girl intensely, making her cower behind Greg.

“Sorry, they’re drinking in there,” Greg shuts the door behind him, taking off the girl’s jacket and taking her bag from her, “so I thought we could, you know…”

Sherlock peers at her. “Are you sure you’re her father? You two look nothing alike.”

Greg lets out an exasperated sigh, and the girl turns to Greg questioningly. “Yeah, Alyssa says nice to meet you, too.”

“I don’t.” Alyssa protests feebly. Greg sits down from across Sherlock after depositing his daughter in the chair next to him.

“I suppose she isn’t pleased to meet you, then.”

Sherlock smirks. “Tell her I’ll fire you if she continues to be displeased by me.”

“You can’t technically fire me. You know that, right?”

Sherlock’s smirk grows. “I can, and I will.”

Greg shoots him an unamused look before turning to his daughter. “Alyssa, this is daddy’s boss, Sherlock Holmes. Say hi.”

Alyssa gives Sherlock a solemn nod but turns back to her father. “Mummy said he was a child who burned down your office.”

Sherlock opens his mouth in vehement protest, but Greg takes over the mantle, “Mummy meant he _acted_ like a child, but no, he’s a fully grown adult.”

Greg throws a smirk in Sherlock’s direction, making Sherlock glare at him before turning to Greg’s daughter. “Alyssa, why don’t you go… decorate some trees? We have one outside.”

Alyssa pouts at Sherlock. “It’s already decorated.”

“I’m sure you can… take down the decorations and redo it?” Sherlock tries doubtfully, but Greg, next to his daughter, signals to him to shut the conversation down with rapid throat-slitting motions.

Alyssa promptly ignores Sherlock and turns to her father. “Daddy, I’m bored. Can I go read your book in your office?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at ‘your book’. Greg’s face falls, and he looks at Sherlock with abject misery on his face. “Give me five minutes, crumpet. Daddy just needs to talk something with his boss, okay? Now, why don’t you go and sit there in the chairs at the back?”

She nods and slides off the chair to retreat to said chairs. Greg waits for her to sit down comfortably before turning to Sherlock. His eyes dart to the exit clearance documentation on Sherlock’s desk, and he heaves a tired sigh.

“Irene informed me too. I hate doing those things.”

Sherlock tosses his pen away. “That makes two of us.”

Greg frowns. “When did _you_ have to lay someone off?”

“When I changed dealers. It’s pretty much the same thing, minus the documentation.”

Greg steals a glance of his daughter, who thankfully hasn’t heard a word. He glances at the cameras in discomfort. “Christ, Sherlock, don’t go around saying things like that to people!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “My art dealer. When I changed my ‘art’ dealer. Happy?”

Greg slumps back into his chair. “Have you made a decision yet?”

“No,” Sherlock lies, examining Greg for any clues regarding any information unknown to him, “but I managed an extension.”

Greg hums in approval. “That’s smart. Best not fire people during Christmas. But it has to be done before the start of next quarter, right?”

Sherlock nods mutely.

“Okay. But don’t hold out on laying off the person too long after you’ve made the decision. Takes a toll, and you start to second-guess yourself.”

“I never second-guess myself,” Sherlock growls, and Greg shakes his head. But whatever he’s about to say is lost to a tentative knock on the door. Sherlock glances at Greg and quickly hides the exit clearance documentation underneath a bunch of files.

“Come in!”

Sherlock’s office door creaks open to reveal John, his tie loose and hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. There’s a small package in his hand, wrapped in blood-red gift paper. Sherlock sits up straight in his chair, his previous smugness vanished into thin air.

John closes his mouth curtly upon seeing the visitors. “Oh, I’ll come back later.”

“No, no,” Sherlock flaps a hand at Greg, trying not to meet John’s eyes, “Greg’s daughter wants to read her book in his office. So they’re leaving.”

“Sherlock,” Greg protests, “I wanted to discuss more—”

“Nope!” Sherlock cuts across him, rising from his chair and gathering Greg’s things to make up for his lethargy, “We’re done here. Enough talking for a day. Leave!”

John gives Sherlock a tentative smile before turning to notice Greg’s daughter. His face breaks into a pleasant smile. “Oh hello, you’re Alyssa, right?”

“Leaving!” Sherlock glowers at Greg, thrusting Alyssa’s little maroon jacket and bag into Greg’s capable hands.

Greg motions to Alyssa to accompany him out and with a last glare at Sherlock, father and daughter trudge away and out of Sherlock’s office. John jerks backwards as Sherlock closes the door behind him, waving John into one of the chairs. John gulps at the searing heat of their proximity and sticks out the gift-wrapped package as a peace offering into the neutral space between them.

“Merry Christmas.”

John attempts a smile, creating some space between himself and Sherlock. Sherlock evaluates the box before accepting it, taking care that their hands don’t touch underneath.

“Thank you. I thought you weren’t going to do gifts.”

John moves away from Sherlock quickly, shimmying out his tense muscles as leans against the cabinet behind Sherlock’s desk. “Couldn’t resist.”

Sherlock offers him a quick half-smile before tearing into his present. Pauses before removing the lid. “It’s not like what we gave Anderson, is it?”

John lets out a chuckle. “No, it’s not a ball of snow.”

Reassured, Sherlock removes the lid to reveal a white ‘World Best Boss’ coffee mug. He reads the inscription and blinks rapidly as if trying to make sense of what he’s ever done to deserve such a veneration. John licks his lips in anticipation for Sherlock’s reaction, but when none comes, he peeps into Sherlock’s distraught face.

“Sherlock?” John tries, snapping his fingers to bring him back to earth.

Rendered mute, Sherlock places the box on his desk reverently as if it were the most precious thing in the world. He points to the ‘World’s Best Boss’ inscription. “Do you... really mean that?”

He turns to look up at John, his eyes wide and uncharacteristically expressive. The vulnerable look echoes in John’s glassy eyes and, consciously or unconsciously, he sways dangerously close to Sherlock, placing one hand on the backrest of Sherlock’s chair to steady himself. John’s eyes wander down Sherlock’s exposed neck before coming to rest on the package, and he jerks back at once, gulping and gripping the edge of Sherlock’s chair tightly to gather himself.

Sherlock tears his eyes away from John and glances at John’s hand close to his back, letting the electricity between them fizzle away into nothingness. John, meanwhile, takes advantage of this split second of distraction to smartly take out the Christmas card from Sherlock’s present and stuff it into the back pocket of his trousers, out of Sherlock’s eye.

Sherlock leans away with a smart cough. John blinks the longing out of his eyes.

“I do.” He nods, reaching for the present and stuffing it back into Sherlock’s trusting care, “Now, hurry along, there’s more.”

“I saw,” Sherlock assesses the present and pulls out the mug, and the trinkets stuffed into it. “Is this… good lord, is this your driving license picture?”

“Yeah and I, uh... concur with your earlier observations.”

Sherlock lets out a chortle and John smiles a fond, contented smile at the unhindered, childlike delight in Sherlock, allowing himself to be waltzed away by the feeling. The tender moment may have popped away the second John chose to retract into safety, but John is just content with blossoming warmth of their friendship.

“Colonel Mustard?” Sherlock brandishes the Cluedo card at him, grunting appreciatively, “Nice touch, John… and is this…?”

John nods, smirking as Sherlock holds up a wine bottle cap at him.

“Gee, Sherlock, I’m surprised you remember.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I never forget anything, John… This is, and I seldom say this, but this is, um… good.”

“Oh _really_? Just good?”

“Fishing for compliments doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock recites automatically before letting a relaxed grin creep into his face, “Fine, it’s _very_ good. I appreciate it.”

John tips an invisible hat. “Attaboy.”

“So good that you’ve proven yourself worthy of this.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock reaches into one of his drawers to retrieve a small package wrapped in yellow gift-wrapping. John peers down at the box in Sherlock’s grip in barely-contained astonishment.

“For me?”

“No, this is for Greg and his daughter, Alice. I should like you to deliver it to them.”

“Alyssa.”

“Right. Her. Of course, it’s for you.”

John weighs the package in his hands, trying to guess the contents inside. “So, if I’d got you a terrible gift, I wouldn’t have got this.”

“I don’t believe you’re capable of terrible gifts," Sherlock's tone is contemplative, "Of course, whether they were any good by _my_ standards is an entirely different question.”

John lets out a chuckle upon detecting the sarcasm beneath Sherlock’s deadpan, “You’re a tosser.”

“A bit premature, but okay.”

“Why—?” John begins, but Sherlock’s statement becomes clear when John tears open the package and reads the label on the box. He fixes a sniggering Sherlock with a droll stare.

“A pedometer?!”

“To keep you regular with your cycling. You’ve gained three pounds since I joined H&H.”

John looks like he wants to throw the appliance right in Sherlock’s face, but subsides into giggles as elbows Sherlock’s arm lightly. “You _utter_ cock!”

“Invectives aren’t appropriate for Christmas, John.”

Suddenly, the door to Sherlock’s office swings open in a blazing-fast move and the only reaction John and Sherlock can manage at the glare of the rude interruption is startled bafflement. Billy Wiggins, a chaotic hurricane with a digital camera, snaps pictures in quick succession, yells ‘For the newsletter’ and disappears as mysteriously as he had struck, leaving nothing but the destruction of John and Sherlock’s previously warm camaraderie in his wake.

John purses his lips and exchanges bemused glances with Sherlock. He nods to himself smartly before tossing Sherlock’s electronic present in his palm. “Well, thanks for this, I suppose. I do need some prodding to keep up with cycling.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk in a half-smile. “And thanks for the… the… you know.”

John nods curtly. He opens his mouth to say something but pushes his tongue into his cheek as if reconsidering, hesitating.

“Um, Sherlock… there was just one last thing...”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, fixing John with a stare as intense as laser. John clenches his fists, gathering the last reserves of his courage. “I wanted to apologise...”

Sherlock frowns, narrowing his eyes, but prompting.

“For the… whatever happened in the conference room. It was out of line.”

“It was traditional,” Sherlock supplies blandly as if he’d had the answered prepared for the discussion he’d been anticipating, “so I did it.”

“Right, of course,” John nods and looks down, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes, not letting him see the hurt bleed through. He inhales deeply before finally looking up with a smirk. “Yeah, if I knew you were such a terrible kisser I’d never have agreed to it.”

Sherlock fixes John with a wistful smile which quickly wilts away into a lost look. He glances at his desk, where the exit clearance documentation lies hidden from John’s eyes. John secretly feels for the Christmas card hidden away in his trouser pocket. With their own secrets tucked away from each other, and their biggest mutual secret hanging heavy in the air between them, John and Sherlock retract their steps backwards, the cold, dead hands of the skeletons in their closets prying them away from each other.

John glances up at Sherlock, seeing detachment beginning to eclipse the naked vulnerability in Sherlock’s silver eyes, and makes one last effort to reach out.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer but hesitates. John extends a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder but retracts it away before he can touch him.

“Nothing,” Sherlock lies. John tilts his head to examine him, but Sherlock simply burrows away into his cave of aloofness.

“You sure?”

For a split second, it seems as if Sherlock is about to confide in John, unburden himself because he reaches out for the hidden space where he’s stashed the layoff forms but retracts his hand back. “Nothing. I just don’t like Christmas.”

John quirks a sceptical eyebrow. “You liar. You love Christmas.”

“Says who?”

John lets out a brief chuckle. “Says the goose you forgot to ‘cook’, you cockmuncher.”

Right on cue, there’s a scream from outside the office, jolting Sherlock’s memory. He lets out a sharp gasp before jumping into his briefcase to retrieve the carving knife he bought. John cringes as if the mental image of a terrified person pointing at a dead goose in the office kitchen—and then having to turn around and spot a bloodthirsty Sherlock with a carving knife—strikes him.

“Sherlock…” he begins doubtfully, “maybe leave the knife behind…?”

But Sherlock disregards him and dashes for the source of the scream. John follows him outside, past the shimmering Christmas tree and the other employees who’ve also heard the cry, into the kitchen. He lets out a groan.

It’s Greg’s six-year-old daughter Alyssa who’d gone looking into the fridge, unchaperoned, for snacks and discovered the dead goose. She turns to stone with shock upon seeing the gleaming carving knife in Sherlock’s grip, who looms over her like a six-foot-tall cannibal.

John glances at the camera, pointing to Sherlock. “See that? This is what I feared.”

Before John can pull Sherlock away from incriminating himself, Greg, who’s heard his daughter’s scream too, rushes in and pushes past Sherlock to pick her up in his arms and comfort her. To her credit, she hasn’t started crying yet. Sherlock glances at the brandished knife in his grip and places it calmly on the kitchen counter, trying to look innocent.

“It’s okay, love,” Greg tries to soothe Alyssa, who’s gone into silent shock. John turns to look over his shoulder only to meet Mrs Hudson’s worried, sobered expression. He attempts a reassuring face at Mrs Hudson before turning back to Sherlock.

“Greg—” John begins when Sherlock can’t, but Greg fixes Sherlock with a furious stare.

“Get the bird out of here,” Greg’s voice is calm, but with ripples of rage on the surface. Sherlock, an apologetic grimace on his face, tries to reach out to his daughter to soothe her, but Greg glares his attempts away.

“Or clean it, but get it out of the fridge,” Greg uses his strict-dad voice, “And clean and disinfect the fridge after you’re done!”

Sherlock opens his mouth to whine, but Greg’s glower wins the proverbial last word. Sherlock exchanges a glance with John, who quirks an eyebrow at the fridge. Sherlock frowns, as if finding the idea of cleaning a shared appliance abhorrent, but John simply presses his lips together in commiseration, shrugging. Sherlock pouts regretfully, and John gives him a stern look that says ‘I’m_ not helping you’_. The entire conversation takes place without actual words, only in glimpses. Which none of them realises until Billy—who had been lurking at the men’s room doorstep—cuts in.

“Why’re you two giving each other weird looks?”

John registers Billy’s presence and glances at the camera as if caught red-handed during a daylight robbery. With one last look at Sherlock, he turns on his feet and marches out of the kitchen, back to his desk. Takes out the envelope containing the Christmas card with ‘Sherlock’ written in it and gazes at it, uncertainty highlighting shadows of doubt across his face, amplifying the lingering conflict at the back of his head.

He turns to glance at the camera and masks his doubt, as if a switch goes off in John Watson’s head and all emotions are hidden behind a wall topped with barbed wire, Bible-black and severe. He opens the bottommost drawer of his desk, and after some contemplation, stuffs the Christmas card into it, and shuts it with a final ‘thud’, as if the card was an echo to his own newfound realisation of his feelings.

Pursing his lips, John glances at the camera with an air of finality, as if he’s washed his hands off a secret he never wanted to bear.

* * *

In the kitchen, Sherlock, wearing a violet apron comically short for him, motions to the goose properly skinned and all feathers plucked from its body. His jacket lies discarded in a corner, and there are faint tracks on blood on his shirt which is damp near the pecs. There’s some blood near his nose too.

“I’ve got slower,” he speaks into the camera, “I did this much better when I was nine. The butcher loved my skills,” he nearly lets out a fond smile before turning serious again, but on the whole, he radiates contentment. “This Christmas was certainly worse than the others, but in some senses, it wasn’t all that bad.”

He licks his lips and colour blooms in his cheeks. Whether from the activity of de-plucking the bird or from earlier, we can’t tell.

“Oh, and we calmed Greg’s daughter down. Just before they were about to leave, a delivery man arrived with another Christmas tree. Apparently, Mrs Hudson had mixed things up and had placed delivery at some other place or something like that… I wasn’t really paying attention. So we had two Christmas trees, and the daughter got to decorate that tree all by herself and Greg got to be the “fun” parent after all… It was odd, but at least people stopped being critics so…”

He shrugs, washing his hands in the sink.

“I have three theories about why Mrs. Hudson forgot such an important detail… but more on that later.”

We zoom in at the blood on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock frowns.

“Oh… did you think I got the blood from the bird? Please!” He scoffs, “This was Philip. Turns out he had been serious about a snowball fight, so he came with eight snowballs in the empty punch bowl and kept throwing at me till he exhausted himself.”

Sherlock rubs at the dried blood underneath his nose, wincing when he touches a particularly unhealed portion. “Goodness, I need an analgesic. That must have been Philip’s annual dose of schadenfreude... But I’ll get back at him.”

* * *

We cut to John in the parking lot of H&H, wrapped up in jacket and scarves and gloves, his nose pink and eyes watery from the chilly wind.

“Yeah, I didn’t give Sherlock the card…” he clenches his jaw and looks away from the camera, “I remembered what I wrote, and it’s effectively a confession, which is the absolute last thing Sherlock needs right now… You saw the man today, right? He was manic throughout, skittish and stressed about god-knows-what. Right now, he’s happy with his dead goose, so...”

John blows out a vapour cloud and marches towards his car. “Bottom line is, the man is teetering on the edge of something he won’t trust me with, he has a girlfriend and what I imagine is a very stressful job, and he was just reluctantly kissed by the one person he objectively refused to kiss. My extremely confused and definitely unrequited... whatever it is,” he points to his heart, “doesn’t matter. A handsome, successful salesman like myself is the last thing Sherlock needs to be burdened with right now.”

With a disparaging, self-pitying chuckle, John shakes his head, getting into his modest grey Fiesta. “Plus, it would’ve been unprofessional of me to give him a card like that. He’s my boss and my best friend, and I’m happy to keep it at that. I’m a grown man, and I can manage my feelings.”

John fastens the seatbelt around him and pats on his breast pocket where he’s kept the pedometer Sherlock gifted to him. Expression contemplative, he purses his lips and with a curt nod to himself, he looks away, as if reevaluating his statement.

“I can manage my feelings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because when I tagged slow burn, I f---ing meant it!
> 
> [Read John's POV of the kiss here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461619)


	16. The Lay-Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Employees of H&H are going out of their way to be nice to Sherlock, which naturally triggers Sherlock's paranoia and makes him want to investigate, in addition to firing an unfortunate employee. John's loyalties are tested.
> 
> TW: Subtle homophobic microaggressions.

“John, can I talk to you for a sec?”

John looks up from his call. Greg Lestrade, notepad in his grip, looms over John, looking like he has to deliver a self-righteous sermon unwillingly. John glances at the camera in curiosity before covering his handset.

“Sure, Greg, give me a mo… Mrs Simms, can I call you back in ten minutes…? Something’s come up, I’m sorry…” John gives a hearty chuckle, “Talk soon. Bye.”

* * *

“A bit awkward, this,” Greg begins with an uneasy smile, placing a hesitant palm over some documents on his desk.

“Do you worst,” John quips. Greg looks like he’s bracing himself for a collision.

“Okay. So I’m not… technically I’m not supposed to be the one to broach this discussion…”

John blinks, bemused at the long pause and Greg’s unease. Realisation strikes him and he glances at the camera in thinly-veiled alarm and gulps. This John Watson is unrecognisable from the one that commiserates about a mundane, dead-end job all day long. This John Watson has already accepted his fate and moved on to try and figure out what's going to happen to him next.

“Sherlock can’t even bring himself to do this in person, can he?”

Greg watches John like a hawk. “I’m assuming, so that’s why it has to be me who needs to inform you about the procedure.”

John inhales a shaky breath. “How long?”

“That’s what _I’m_ supposed to ask you.”

Under the table, we see John’s left hand give an involuntary quiver. “That’s up to me? Usually isn’t in cases like these.”

Greg frowns, his eyes narrowing. He nods after a long, tense period of silence. “Oh okay… I suppose that’s what it must be like with Sherlock, huh? Nothing’s up to… the other person.”

John’s brows knit together in a confused frown. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“About… you and Sherlock.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well, there’s a…” Greg tries as diplomatically as possible, but keeps coming up with dead ends and decides to wing it, “I’m just making sure you know about H&H’s policy on workplace relationships.”

“What?”

“Ideally, I should take it up with Sherlock since he should be the one to do it, being your manager but… you know, it’s Sherlock. He’ll say ‘I piss on H&H policy’ and run away and, well, a romantic relationship between a manager and subordinate, while not forbidden by H&H, is a bit discouraged and must be declared to HR as soon as—”

John cuts Greg off by putting up a hand. Greg allows him a while to contemplate, but John, looking relieved and scandalised in equal parts, will have none of it.

“_This_ is what you wanted to talk to me about?!”

“What did you reckon this was?”

“I thought I was getting canned!”

Greg is horrified by the idea. “If that were the case, Sherlock would’ve been involved in the discussion too!”

“So imagine what one would think if you start the conversation with _‘I’m not supposed to be the one to broach this discussion’_.”

Greg emits a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes. “No, this is about your relationship with Sherlock. Now, I’d like you to read these documents carefully.”

Before John can respond, Greg thrusts the papers in his grip as if parting with a troublesome and unwanted pet. “This is a workplace relationship disclosure form. There’s a section on a waiver of some of your rights which you should read carefully. It releases the company in the event of—”

“Greg, I’m going to stop you right there,” John returns the papers to Greg’s custody. “Sherlock and I are not dating!”

“Well, whatever you call it,” Greg shrugs, “dating, relationship, contractual sexcapade or whatever new _thing_ kids come up with these days—”

“I’m sure nobody calls it a contractual sexcapade.”

“I think you know what I’m referring to.”

“There’s nothing of a romantic or any other nature going on between Sherlock and me!”

John’s defensive outburst is a little loud and high-pitched. He goes red in the ears and casts an apologetic glance over the area within earshot. His eyes dart away when he receives bemused looks from Billy and Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, okay,” Greg tries to backtrack, “well, I just heard the rumours, and I thought… I thought it would be easier to have this discussion with you rather than Sherlock. Wishful thinking.”

John cocks his head. “What rumours?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John Watson in the conference room. He’s still recovering from a horrible case of the blushes.

“So I just got ‘The Talk’ from the HR because my dad never covered it when I was sixteen,” John, still red, begins in his signature deadpan, “it was fantastic. We talked about our changing bodies. Standard stuff.”

John takes a deep breath, finally ready to say what he actually means.

“No, of course, it wasn't 'The Talk’. Perhaps it was the HR equivalent of one. According to Greg, there’s a rumour going on that Sherlock and I are “hooking up”. And that I’m gay, which is not accurate. None of it is. The rumour dates back to the disastrous Christmas party after we had to… you know.”

He rubs his face, which is slowly losing colour.

“And you know what the best part is? Someone found out Sarah and I split up during the party which is lending credibility to these rumours.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, mouth curling Cheshire at the edges.

“I found out. Obviously.”

His smile vanishes after a beat of introspection.

“Don’t tell John that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk, fast at work. Billy comes up from behind him and claps him on the shoulder.

“It’s so cool you’re gay,” he pats a startled John proudly, “I honestly underestimated you.”

John clenches his jaw, going red once again. “I’m not gay.”

“I am all for the gays, I want you to know. LGBT forever! I love your gay rallies.”

“Stop saying ‘gay’.”

“But seriously, I’ve got a girlfriend,” Billy nods gravely. John glances at Billy’s offending hand still on his shoulder, making him retract it.

“Why’re you telling me that?”

“Uh... no reason?”

“Go back to your desk, Billy,” John snaps in his Captain Watson voice, making Billy scramble away at once. John glances where Billy had patted him and regards their conversation with a sense of foreboding. Philip glares at John and turns away as John catches him looking.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, smiling bitterly.

“Yes, I’m very cool. I work as a salesman at a dying paper company. Very ambitious. I played the clarinet in school, which put me on top of the cool kid pyramid. I dropped out of medical school four years into it. Lack of commitment, very cool. On top of that, my landlord just informed me that the couple living upstairs have wreaked havoc on the pipes once again and I have to call the plumber for the second time this week so, ladies, form an orderly queue.”

John stretches his neck towards the reception, where Molly is on the phone.

“I would’ve caught this rumour, but Molly hasn’t been talking to me as much, which is unprecedented,” John shakes his head, contemplating, “She’s usually my go-to source for gossip. Not that I… gossip, but one has to know how they get perceived, don’t they…?"

John's mouth falls open in a pang of realisation.

"Now that I recall, apart from that weirdness with Billy today, nobody’s been talking to me these days... Even Philip. But why?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room.

“John says I gossip?” She purses her lips as if planning how to get back at John, “Well, that proves my point. We can’t trust him anymore… By ‘we’, I mean… well, as you’d guess, last week, most of us found out during the Christmas party that Sherlock is going to lay someone off before the end of the month. Well, I just told Mrs Hudson and the word sort of spread… and since we don’t know who it’s going to be, we decided not to mention to John or Greg that we’re trying to find out… they’d both just alert Sherlock that we know... Sherlock's been a nightmare this past week, so...”

* * *

Camera cuts to John approaching reception with papers in his hand.

“Molly, can you fax these for me?”

“Sure,” Molly nods stiffly.

John frowns at the camera. Molly appears far too formal than usual. “Hey, everything okay?”

She forces a smile. “Yeah.”

John nods back but hangs around aimlessly for a while. He peeps into Sherlock’s office, of whatever is visible of him through the blinds.

“Want something, John?”

Startled out of his reverie, John tears his eyes away and forces them to focus on Molly. He’s been staring at Sherlock’s office way too long. “No… well, I don’t know, everything’s been so quiet, hasn’t it?”

Molly’s back stiffens and John doesn’t miss the involuntary movement.

“You okay?”

Molly nods without looking at John, who feels forced to fill the awkward void.

“Been a while since Philip’s acted up, hasn’t he—?”

The door to Sherlock’s office yawns opens and John turns at the source of the sound.

“Molly! Coffee!” A frazzled Sherlock calls out and the faintest trace of a resigned smile appears when he catches John’s eye. Molly, seeing her window of opportunity, slips out of John’s scrutiny and rushes towards Sherlock with coffee with atypical gusto. Which isn’t as strange as Sally Donovan who, walking into the conference room to take a call, glances at Sherlock and wishes him a polite “good morning”.

John gapes at the camera, thunderstruck. Since when did Sally Donovan begin to greet and smile at Sherlock Holmes?

“Here you go, Sherlock, your coffee," Molly pipes in brightly, "And I wanted to discuss something too.”

Sherlock, who is equally dumbstruck by Sally’s unprecedented morning greeting, turns his attention to Molly. “Botched it today too, I expect?”

Molly winces at the unusual cattiness in Sherlock's tone. “Black, two sugars. Just as you like.”

“It’s just you never bother to get my coffee right. If it’s sweet, it’s not black, and if it’s black, it’s not hot…”

But Sherlock’s criticism dissipates as he takes a sip and visibly jerks backwards. Molly beams.

“Good, right?”

Sherlock stares at her openmouthed. He shuts his mouth abruptly and does a visual sweep of her, as if ascertaining himself that the woman in front of him is, indeed, Molly Hooper and not an alien in human skin.

“In you go,” he mutters weakly, waving her into the office and closing the door behind him.

John glances at the camera suspiciously. Sally wishing Sherlock ‘good morning’ and Molly running away from John and not ruining Sherlock’s morning coffee? Something’s wrong and he can feel it.

* * *

“Be quick about it, Molly!” Sherlock, obviously in midst of one of his black moods, snaps his fingers at her, "And don't dawdle around the point. It makes me take you even less seriously. Quick!"

Molly gulps. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Well, you remember you were asking for an access badge to the hospital where a friend of mine is interning?”

Sherlock's jittery impatience grinds to a halt. “Yes?”

“Well, he’s agreed,” Molly reaches into the pocket of her sweater and produces an ID card, "Now, this won't get you as far as the morgue, but I have a feeling you can wing it."

Sherlock’s breath hitches as if he’s seen the Northern Lights for the first time and he accepts it with devotee-like reverence. “Molly?”

She’s pleased. “Yes?”

He looks up, and the worshipful look is gone in a flash, replaced by scepticism. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you break something in the kitchen? I can see you heated your malodorous lunch in the shared microwave yesterday and those are the sort of silly things you try to make up for because you’re feeling guilty or something stupid like that, but I assure you I couldn't care less—”

“No, no!” Molly crosses her arms defensively, “I wanted you to have it because... it seemed very... important to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Why're you lying to me? You _never_ lie to me.”

“I never lie to you!”

“You're giving me this badge, something you said you couldn't manage under any circumstances. You brought me coffee the way I like it. You’ve complimented me on my attire twice in the last week, which is twice since I’ve been here—”

“It’s a nice cut,” Molly tries weakly.

“You pretended to be bad at that irritating crossword to get me to help you—”

“That crossword was hard!”

“It was the Daily Mail, for God’s sake, not Sunday Times! Daily Mail doesn’t have hard crosswords! Out with it, what have you done? What’s so egregious that you have to atone for it by being nice to me?”

The phone at the reception rings like a fire alarm, and Molly nearly springs from her chair, her voice reduced to a squeak, “I’ve to go. Phone ringing!”

“Molly!”

But she skips away and out of Sherlock’s office, closing the door behind her with a neat _click,_ leaving Sherlock behind to glare at the camera.

“Something’s wrong. The employees are all being 'nice' to me since Boxing Day and I must know why. I smell deceit, and you remember the last time an employee deceived me and went to Irene behind my back, don't you? Can't ever trust them, need to remember that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally Donovan fixing herself a coffee in the break room. Philip Anderson enters the room and Sally barely glances at him, but clears her throat as if to say that he's got her attention. He busies himself with the water cooler, turning his back to her. "You wanted to meet?"

“John.”

Philip frowns but keeps his attention on the water cooler. “What about him?”

“Talk to him. Find out what he knows about who Sherlock is going to fire. I'm working on figuring out how long Martha and Billy plan to do Sherlock's bidding. Arse-kissers, the lot of them!”

Philip’s confusion digs a deeper frown. “I don’t think John knows. Just because they’re chummy doesn’t mean Sherlock tells him everything, especially about such delicate decisions.”

“They’re not just _chummy_,” Sally scoffs, “You saw them kiss at the party! There’s no way they’re not shagging after work… maybe even during work…”

The mental image makes her cringe. She peeps out at the workplace as if wondering where they could’ve done it and cold realisation grips her.

“Christ, I hope they haven’t done it on my desk.”

The thought makes Philip scoff in disbelief. “John has sat next to me for three years. He’s not gay. He even came with his girlfriend to the party!”

“And isn’t it a shame she had to see what her boyfriend was up to with her own eyes?”

Philip gulps. It’s a low blow, no matter how justified. He hangs his head low in guilt. “Just for the record, I’m not gay.”

Grimacing, Sally turns to glance at his back, “Why would you even say that?”

“I don’t know. You seem to believe anything about me these days! If you're willing to believe a bloke is gay just because he had to kiss another bloke for public entertainment...”

"I profoundly don't care!"

"All the same. I'd like it out there so nobody has any doubts."

Sally scoffs. “Unbelievable! All these months and I can’t believe I never saw it!"

Philip frowns in genuine confusion. "Saw what?"

"This!" She waves an exasperated hand at Philip, "You! Overcompensating!”

But whatever she’s about to say next is lost as the door to the men’s room swings open and Billy creeps past the thick air between Sally and Philip’s turned backs. The presence of a third person catapulting suspicious glances at the two of the sobers them up.

“Anyway, I thought you weren’t talking to me,” Philip begins after making sure that Billy’s out of earshot.

“We work in the same office, Philip,” Sally seethes through clenched teeth. “Even if I tried my hardest to avoid you, I couldn’t.”

Philip smirks. “Instead you are actively seeking me.”

Sally seems disgusted by the limited options she has left to exercise. “Forget it, I’ll ask someone else!”

“No, wait!” Philip nearly gives his cover away in his desperation and makes a reckless move towards Sally but she glares him down, making him cringe, “I’ll do it! I’ll ask John!”

Sally doesn’t look like she likes this unholy alliance, but she nods regardless and strolls out of the kitchen purposefully.

* * *

At John and Philip’s desk clump, Philip keeps stealing quick glimpses of John squinting and scowling at his computer. John notices but doesn’t react until it gets too much for him.

“Spit it out, Philip!”

Philip winces at John’s brusque snap but begins his quest with a tone laden with uncharacteristic expectation.

“Hey, so listen... I was thinking that you and I should form an alliance. It might be a good idea, y’know. Help each other out.”

Despite the suspicion it arises in him, John’s ears perk up at the hope in Philip’s tone, his previous prickliness forgotten. “What are you on about?”

“You know…” Philip prompts in the direction of Sherlock’s office, “I’ve heard you’re starting to swing the other way but—”

“One more word, Philip,” John clenches his fist threateningly and Philip fixes him with a pointed glare.

“Let me put it in a way you’d understand better,” Philip tries again, this time more carefully, “In ancient Rome, they consolidated power through alliances.”

The tic in John’s jaw jumps more and more violently with each passing moment. “Why do you think I’d understand ancient Rome better than modern England?”

“Because…” Philip tilts his head in confusion, “… well, you’d _really_ like ancient Rome, John.”

“Why is that?”

“… Oh, you’d _love_ ancient Rome! Probably ancient Greece too...”

John looks like he wants to rip Philip’s head off. He fixes the man with a hard stare as if wondering whether to take Philip up on his offer and teach him a lesson in the process. Then—

“Okay yeah, an ‘alliance’. Sure.”

“Good, good,” Philip is relieved, “Excellent, okay. Now, you must've heard about the redundancies in the Bracknell branch, yeah...? Good. I was thinking we should figure out who’s vulnerable and who’s safe in our branch… and the best way to do that is…”

He arches his eyebrows in the direction of Sherlock’s office, “… To hear directly from the horse’s mouth.”

John nods mock-seriously. “Gotcha.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“I’m having a pretty shitty day. I'm tired of talking about the gay thing and honestly, it baffles me that _I'm_ the one getting awkward conversations. In contrast, Sherlock is getting special treatment for something we're equally culpable! So, can we not talk about me for once?”

We yield. John is not used to being the centre of attention, and from his brusque manner, we can tell he doesn’t like it at all.

“Thank you,” John’s face softens, “As you might've noticed through the months, whatever Philip does annoys me. Sherlock and I spend hours coming up with ways to get back at him, but only in ways that could get us arrested. No, seriously, we have an entire file in the bottommost drawer of Sherlock’s desk! So when, during a truly shitty day, Philip comes and says 'No, John, here’s a way’… well, it helps.”

* * *

In the break room, Molly and Mrs Hudson are huddled around the vending machine, trilling away.

“He caught me today while I gave him his coffee. Looked me three times over and said he couldn’t believe I’d made it.”

“Well dear, he wasn’t wrong about that, was he?”

Molly pushes the buttons for a Snickers bar, “I suppose. Anyway, thanks for your help, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock seemed to like it as much as the hospital card so he probably won't fire me.”

Mrs Hudson smiles sweetly, “No problem, love. So, were you able to get anything out of him?”

Molly’s lips quirk downwards. “You know how he is. Fort bloody Knox! Nothing slips past him. And once he caught on to me he started demanding answers and I had to make an excuse and escape!”

Mrs Hudson seems to mull it over for a minute. “So far, we know it's not you. Greg is HR, so not him. And John is... Did we ask John to keep an eye on Sherlock? They're close.”

“No, we discussed this, don’t you remember? We _can’t_ have John on this. He's too close to Sherlock. All my fault, too," Molly adds in an undertone.

Mrs Hudson doesn’t look like she remembers. “ Sorry pet, old age."

"No, I understand..." she leans in close to Mrs Hudson as if confiding a state secret, "Have you... made yourself secure, though?"

Mrs Hudson flaps a hand with a flippant chuckle, "Oh no, dear, Sherlock won't fire _me._"

"That's the thing, though. It's not exactly up to _him,_ is it...? Even if it's someone else who gets the boot, better if you... y'know, keep yourself in his good books, just in case. You have only a couple of years until retirement, don't you?"

Conflicted, Mrs Hudson ponders this seriously.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip and John spying on Molly and Mrs Hudson chatting in the break room. Philip looks concerned, and John merely revels in Philip’s anxiety.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Philip cocks his head in their direction. John pretends to squint with much concentration.

“Well, I can’t hear from here, but tensions seem high, don’t they?”

Philip looks at John as if he’s his long lost brother. “M’thinking the same too. Can you go and find out?”

John shakes his head. “If I go in there, they’ll get suspicious.”

“Good thinking. But how do we find out?”

“I’m friends with the crew,” John prompts towards the camera crew with a conspiratorial wink that Philip overlooks, “I’m pretty sure they'll lend me the audio from Molly's collar mic after work.”

Philip emits a frustrated growl. “That’s fine, but this is time-sensitive. We have to know now!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I'll lip-read.”

Philip scans John suspiciously as if wondering if John is being earnest. John shrugs his innocence.

“If you don’t believe me, you can cross-check with the audio clips later.”

Philip heaves a sigh of relief upon hearing that. John glances at the camera in undisguised triumph before pretending to fill in the details of Molly and Mrs Hudson’s conversation that the distance doesn’t allow them to hear.

“So Molly is saying something about Sally… she saw her name on a form.”

Cold terror grips Philip by the throat. “And?”

“She says Sally was mentioned in a phone call between Sherlock and Irene.”

“Good or bad?”

John gives Philip a pointed look. Definitely not good.

“Mrs Hudson is planning to take Sherlock hunting tomorrow as part of a _quid pro quo_ arrangement.”

Philip scowls. “Hunting?”

“Yeah. Everybody knows hunting is Sherlock's favourite pastime.”

Philip looks doubtful, but he’s not going to argue on Sherlock's pastimes with John of all people. “And?”

John peers at them, miming high efforts of concentration. “That’s all I can make out… but think about it. Molly is the receptionist and Mrs Hudson has been here since time immemorial. Together, they know more about the branch than the rest of us combined.”

Philip nods gravely. “I see what you’re getting at. They’ve formed an alliance too.”

“Exactly! And they’re trying to kick Sally out.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“Am I being terrible to Philip? Good question,” stroking his chin thoughtfully, John mimes thinking hard over it, “I s'pose I am, but Sherlock is going to split his guts laughing when I tell him Philip’s asked me to spy on him.”

* * *

There's a knock on Sherlock's door, but Sherlock, busy reading through binders, doesn't bother to acknowledge. Two knocks. Three knocks.

“Stop loitering by the door and come in!” He snaps loudly. Even the door seems to cringe at his vitriol.

It's a meek Billy. “Hiya, boss.”

“What is it?” Sherlock doesn't bother to grace him with a look.

“Was wonderin' if ya need anythin’.”

“No, thank you.”

“Uh... okay, uh... well, your socks, no... your tie. Your tie looks nice, boss.”

That stops Sherlock in his tracks. He raises his head to peer at him in incredulity. “What?"

“Your tie,” Billy nods uneasily as if he were doing this on a dare, “looks good.”

“Really?”

“Uh... yeah.”

A few beats of awkward silence. Sherlock is left staring intensely at Billy's inscrutable face, while Billy's fingers scratch on the woodwork of the doorway.

“Better than yesterday?”

Billy nods solemnly.

Sherlock flashes a 'gotcha' smirk. “I wasn't wearing a tie yesterday. I never wear ties. Today was an exception. Mothers.”

Billy gulps. Caught red-handed, his twitching index finger slips into the scratched doorway and he lets out a silent yelp when a splinter pricks him.

“What are you up to, Billy?” Sherlock steeples his palms under his chin, fingers drumming deliberately, calculatingly, “Why're you being like this?”

“I-I-I'm just being nice!”

"This is not being ‘nice’. This is something else. Do sit down, Bill Wiggins. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Can I—can I do your laundry?”

Sherlock scowls. That escalated quickly. “Billy.”

“I’m doing mine today. I could do yours too!”

* * *

Camera cuts to a preoccupied Sherlock alone in his office.

“The past week was hell! As you might remember, I was told to lay someone off on Christmas Eve but I managed to extort a deadline out of the powers that be. That deadline expires on Monday and I still haven’t found a way to trim the budget without losing a single employee…”

He emits a low snarl as if displeased with himself.

“I’m not good at keeping secrets, especially when they’re about other people. I might have to resort to the worst-case scenario, which is firing Henry after he returns from his furlough on Monday. But keeping it to myself has… taken a toll… especially with all of them being suspiciously nice to me… It’d be ideal if one of them got hit by a bus; I’d not have to go through with firing anybody and my problems would be solved...”

He squints at the camera. “What...? Paranoid? I’m being neither paranoid nor neurotic! My suspicions are always legitimate! I'm not the sort of person people want to spend their time with, and I know why. I'm humble enough to be aware of my faults, no matter how microscopic they might be.

“I have five theories as to why and have discarded two of them… and, of course, as with proving any hypothesis, experimentation with discrete sets of data is required before drawing conclusions. So, in that spirit, I’ve accepted the niceness of my employees, which included offers to do my laundry, grocery shopping, filling my car with petrol, getting me chocolate pudding from a particular shop just outside of London, suchlike… Well, in the spirit of total honesty, some of them were _my_ offers that they seemed happy to do for me.”

Smirking, Sherlock sips his coffee from his 'World's Best Boss' mug and smacks his lips. His landline rings, interrupting his smug glow.

“Sherlock Holmes…” his expression sours, “...put her through.”

“Sherlock,” Irene’s voice cracks over the speaker like a whip, “it’s Friday. You asked to skip Christmas and I gave you that. I need to start the paperwork ASAP.”

He rolls his eyes. “Last I checked, December has thirty-one days.”

“What difference is one day going to make?”

“You’ll get the forms on Monday.”

The silence on the other end is tense. “Darling, the clock’s run out. You made the decision one week ago and still haven’t communicated it to Henry or sent the final paperwork.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. “Henry comes back on Monday. I'll have Molly send the paperwork on Monday.”

Irene's sigh is exasperated. “It's either one employee or the entire branch, Sherlock. Stop trying to be a—”

But the call cuts abruptly as a frustrated Sherlock hangs up on her with a loud, satisfying _bang_. Which, however, does nothing to give him solace.

"I need to figure this layoff thing by the end of today,” he groans, burying his face in his palms, “But before that, I need to figure out why they're all behaving in such an infantile manner. I need to figure out the deceit, and no, this is not my paranoia! I know when the employees are conspiring against me."

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room.

“I heard Billy’s doing Sherlock’s laundry,” she scoffs, “the depths one can descend not to get fired. And Molly has reduced herself to Sherlock's PA. Absolutely no self-respect! Typical millennials, thinking they can just cosy up to the boss and make themselves secure in the organization without having work to show for!”

A text alert buzz makes her retrieve her phone from her pocket. “That’s the whole problem with our work culture. Boomers like Martha and millennials like Billy skiving off and leaving the work to the generation squeezed in between!”

She squints at the phone. Reading the text makes her eyes go wide and her mouth fall open in outrage.

“They’re considering firing me,” Sally heaves herself off the chair with a vengeance, “Let’s see how I let that happen.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room.

“Molly is understandably distressed about the lay-offs. The reception job is how she pays for her uni tuition, poor wee squirrel,” her lips curve downwards in maternal sympathy.

“But what’s hysterical is that she thinks Sherlock is actually going to lay somebody off! I don’t think Sherlock—despite being so clever and all—has the slightest clue. Even if he _has_ figured it out somehow, I don’t think he’s going to stick with his choice. In the end, what’s going to happen is he’s going to fire the first person to mention Harry Potter in front of him. Or someone who lurks at his door for longer than three seconds. And therein lies the true essence of Sherlock’s charisma—”

A stern clear of the throat. Camera pans to reveal Sherlock in the doorway of the conference room, looking at if someone has, indeed, mentioned Harry Potter in front of him. Mrs Hudson’s face crinkles in worry, second-guessing her monologue on Sherlock.

“Martha. My office, now.”

Mrs Hudson gulps. Sherlock hasn’t called her by her given name since the birthday month incident months ago. She stares Sherlock down and Sherlock averts his gaze like a schoolboy with soiled shoes.

“Please,” he adds after a beat.

* * *

“Martha, you've been a stellar employee of H&H.”

In Sherlock's office, seated from across the man, Mrs Hudson stares hard at him until the silence in the office gets too overbearing for her.

“You look stressed, darling. Do you want a cuppa?”

“You’ve brought me three cuppas since morning! Don’t you remember?”

“Well, I'm just being nice.”

“Are you?” Sherlock's eyes narrow and drill into Mrs Hudson’s disquieted figure. “Why? Why now? Why today? "

"I'm always nice to you, love."

"What are you planning? Why is everybody being nice to me? You're all giving me a bloody headache!”

Mrs Hudson squirms under his scan. “Some people really are, aren't they?”

Sherlock frowns. “Sorry, what?”

“Sophie Donovan, for instance. She's terrible to you.”

His urge to murder is rising exponentially. _“Sally_ Donovan, you mean. And, she smiled at me.”

Mrs Hudson shrugs. “She's not nice enough. Just my twopence.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room.

“Well, Molly wasn’t wrong. I did have to make myself secure and being nice wasn’t working… I’m sure Susan will land on her feet.”

She glances at her nailbeds, pretending to whistle like an innocent bystander.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the break room getting himself a mid-morning snack from the vending machine.

“So, what I gathered from Philip is that Sherlock has been told to lay someone off from this branch,” he emits a faint chuckle. “Well, we all knew lay-offs were coming and truth be told, I’m a little… uncertain about how things would turn out if Sherlock thought I was the best person to be laid off…”

John’s eyes wander off aimlessly at the thought as if trying to rationalise that outcome.

“Obviously, I’d be a little pissed off… maybe not as much at the fact that I’d be out of a job… Okay, maybe a little mad about that too, but mostly… I don’t know, maybe because it’s Sherlock who’d be doing the firing, and I’d be mad. Of course, I’d sympathise that it’s nothing personal, purely budgetary reasons that he doesn’t need me anymore…”

John clenches his fists at the thought. He doesn’t look like he’d sympathise. He throws up his hands in defeat.

“No use worrying what’s going to happen. I’m sure it can’t be easy for Sherlock too. He’s probably cooped up in his office right now wishing someone got hit by a bus and ended his misery,” he chuckles nervously, “But I still don’t understand why Molly has been avoiding me so religiously…”

John drifts off when he notices something behind the camera. We pan to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of the break room, awkward and hesitant. John licks his bottom lip in expectation and Sherlock averts his eyes to glower at the cameras.

“Hey.”

A clumsy John doesn’t notice he’s punched in regular coke in the vending machine instead of diet. “Bad day, huh?”

Sherlock smiles a small, shy smile. “I’ve had better.”

John’s selected beverage falls to the bottom of the machine with a _clang_, startling them both. Sherlock’s breathing ramps up almost imperceptibly when John lets out a groan upon retrieving the soda can. They both keep stealing embarrassed glimpses of the camera, not welcoming the intrusion.

“You wanted... diet?” Sherlock notices the exasperation on John’s face. John goes crimson.

“Uh, yeah. Do you want that?” He sticks out his arm, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, “I can just get another.”

Sherlock tenses up slightly, staring from John’s blushing face to his trembling hand. This is the fourth time someone has offered him a beverage during the day and he can’t figure out if it’s just a coincidence or if John is on it with the rest of the branch.

“I’ll pay for yours,” Sherlock offers quickly, but John waves him down with a meaningful look. Sherlock frowns in protest at the act of generosity. John sighs and pointedly punches in his original choice of drink. Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls open his can with a gentle _hiss_.

“By the way,” John begins after their telepathic conversation is finally over, “Philip asked me to spy on you.”

“He _what_? Why?”

“He said it was an ‘alliance’. So if he ever asks you your hobby, say deer hunting.”

Sherlock lets out a snigger, “Duly noted. What else?”

“I may have convinced him that you’re trying to kick Sally off the branch. I think I’ll spend the rest of my afternoon convincing him that members of the office are doing secret meetings all over the building. Probably get him to say 'immunity' in any context. Don't think I've ever heard him say that particular word.”

“Immunity?”

“If I could get Philip to say ‘immunity’, it might just be the greatest day of my life.”

Sherlock smirks. “How terribly ambitious of you.”

John shrugs, a silly smile creeping over his face. “I am a difficult man to please.”

“Well, in that case,” Sherlock bites down on his bottom lip, and John follows the movement with his heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips, “I shall endeavour to do my best.”

* * *

“You _told_ Sherlock? What the hell, John?!”

In the emergency stairwell, John avoids Philip’s accusing gaze, crosses his arms defensively, “Look, I-I just said that to get him into my confidence.”

Philip rolls his eyes. “I thought you already had his confidence. Don’t play me!”

John rubs the back of his neck, pursing his lip in guilt. “What did he say to you?”

“He called me into his office and asked me how his tie looked! I said it looked nice. And then he proceeded to interrogate me and offer me 'immunity'!”

John bites down on his lip in glee. “Well, that’s tame enough. He does look nice with a good tie.”

“John, stop thinking of him as your gay lover! It’s clear he’s using you under the pretext of romance!”

“I’m not—”

But Philip wheels around on him, threatening and looming and John, who usually doesn’t give two shits to men towering over him, cowers a little.

“He took information from you about us and is now using it to figure out what we know about the lay-offs! He’s your manager and he won’t hesitate to fire you, or either of us, so are you with him or with us?”

John snorts, but it’s uncertain and not as jeering as he probably hoped it would be. “You’re delusional!”

But Philip’s mouth curls in disgust. “Some people _are_ sucking up to him. I don’t do that sort of thing but I don’t bother commenting unless it’s at the expense of other employees.”

“Right, at _others’ _expense!”

“You’re selling out your own, John! No wonder people don’t talk to you anymore.”

John scowls, dumbfounded at the dirty accusation. “If _people_ don’t want to talk to me anymore, that’s their business! I don’t give a rat’s arse about what others think of me!”

“That’s a lie and you know it!”

“And—and what about the times you stole clients from me, you dickhead? Wasn’t that at my expense too?”

“That’s different!” Philip reproaches, his face growing crimson with every second, “You and I and Sally and Martha and everybody else are on the same level. We are at ground level. We’re in a position to compete with each other—”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?!”

“—But he’s the manager! His name literally has ‘Holmes’ in it! You geddit? The bloody company name!”

Deep in contemplation, John’s wary eyes meet Philip’s accusatory ones and dart away.

“He’s not part of _our_ family, John! What about this is so hard for you to understand?!”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, brows knitted together in a troubled frown.

“Philip is being an idiot as usual, right? He’s clearly projecting his weird issues with Sally on me! I am one hundred per cent convinced Sally put him up to this ‘alliance’ fuckery!”

He glances down at his lap in guilt. “I’m not selling anyone out. Sure, Sherlock’s the manager, but he’s also my… friend. It’s not like I’m mixing the two... Right?”

* * *

When a knock on Sherlock’s office door reveals John, Sherlock quickly clears rogue papers off his desk with a curt clear of his throat.

“Hey,” John closes the door behind him on Philip’s keen face watching them from his desk, “you asked to see me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock indicates him to a chair, “something is up with the general populace.”

John gives a nervous chuckle at the contrast between Sherlock’s attitude during their twitterpated interaction in the break room and the formal man sitting in front of him. “What d’you mean?”

Sherlock clasps his hands together and sits up straight in his chair. “The last time something like this happened, Philip Anderson went to Irene behind my back. Remember that?”

“Something like _what_ happened?”

“Two or more employees exhibiting the same pattern of behaviour. I’ve observed that human habits largely depends on pack habits. Therefore, everybody is in on something against me.”

“Well, aren’t you Mr Spock?”

Sherlock scowls at the comparison. “After several trials, I have determined that you and Greg are the only two people not exhibiting these behaviours. Therefore, I can safely assume you’re not involved.”

“Wait, what behaviour—?”

Sherlock’s landline rings out loudly, startling both men. With a mutter, Sherlock answers it, “Sherlock Holmes… What, Molly…? No, I’m busy! Don’t call me again!”

He bangs the handset down and turns back to John. Camera pans to the reception, where we see Molly shake her head towards somebody in Accounting. Sally Donovan, with her hands on her hips, is peering in the direction of Sherlock’s office, cheeks puffed in frustration. She turns away upon noticing the camera filming but silently motions to Molly to try again.

“As I was saying,” Sherlock puts on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “they are all fawning over me, and I need to figure out why.”

John gapes at him and bites on his knuckles till he finds himself able to speak without any trace of amusement. “Sorry, so just to be clear, it _worries_ you that people are being nice to you?”

“You know me, John. Why on earth would people be _nice_ to someone like me?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, lips pressed together to keep himself from laughing.

"You know what's the funniest part about the whole thing? If it had been anyone else in Sherlock's position, they wouldn't have looked the gift horse in the mouth. They'd have hooked one leg over the other and basked in the sunshine of their subordinates' praise. But Sherlock is actively obsessive, even suspicious about it... as if he just can't believe people can actually like him..."

John trails off into contemplation and his chuckles vanish and transmute into a low gasp of horror and tragedy, "... Which is true, in this case. Almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy... My god, that's sad."

* * *

John shrugs. “That’s odd, yeah. Personally, I want to bash my head on the wall when I’m in the same room as you.”

Sherlock looks taken aback. “You do?”

John gives him a pointed look and Sherlock interprets it with a small smile.

“I’m serious, John. What are they saying out there?”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” John's chuckle is incredulous, ”There’s not a thing you don’t know!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m not God, John. I can’t know everything!”

“Well, can’t you ‘deduce’?”

“I’ll have to... move my bottom and go out there—”

The landline rings out again and Sherlock groans in frustration, “Sherlock Holmes… Molly, what did I say…? Fine, put him through…”

John slumps into his chair and glances at the camera uncomfortably, as if feeling terribly out of place. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and mouths ‘so unprofessional of me’, making John chuckle.

“… lipophedrine, what…? You don’t sell lipophedrine, I can hear the background noise and it’s not a call centre. Lipophedrine is a diet pill and, if ever sold over the phone, will be done through a call centre and I can tell you work in an office because I can hear a printer running in the background… wait, Philip?”

The line disconnects immediately and Sherlock springs from his chair and throws open the door to his office in record time. “Philip!”

Red and terribly out of breath, Philip tries to arrange the things on his desk and look innocent. It takes Sherlock one look at Philip’s landline to figure out the truth.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Try better next time! Idiot!”

With that, Sherlock closes the door with a loud _thud_ and goes back to his desk. “They’re trying to interrupt our conversation. Why?” He tilts his head like a predator evaluating his prey, “What do you know that they don’t want you to tell me?”

John emits a nervous chuckle and rises from his chair. “You and Philip are birds of the same flock! Such conspiracy nuts!”

Sherlock frowns, a suspicious edge creeping into his voice. “Why, what’s Philip saying?”

John begins to inch away from Sherlock. “I, uh… need to start doing the expense reports.”

“Will you help me with this investigation? Could be dangerous,” Sherlock adds as an afterthought.

“_How_ is it dangerous?”

Sherlock shrugs, trying to look innocent and John heaves a resigned sigh.

“Fine, I’ll talk around.”

* * *

It’s three pm when Sherlock finally emerges from his office and heads towards the restrooms. The atmosphere in the office is teetering on the edge. The few employees remaining in the office and not out doing chores for Sherlock look like they are itching to go into Sherlock’s office and search for clues on who he’s thinking of firing. But no one is willing to bell the cat.

“John!” Philip is the first one to speak up, “This is your chance!”

John scowls. “For what?”

“Go in there and check the name on the exit clearance form as we discussed!”

“Absolutely not.”

“You owe us that much!” Molly pipes in, craning her neck to ensure Greg can’t hear their little chat, “After you told Sherlock everything!”

“I told him nothing!”

“Oh please!” Sally crowds up on him too, “That’s probably the kind of pillow talk you two engage in.”

John glares daggers at Sally. “Right, so two weeks ago, Irene was having pillow talks with him, and now it’s me?”

“Who knows, dear,” Mrs Hudson shrugs, “it could be a threesome for all we know!”

“Mrs Hudson!” John cries out, scandalised and, to his horror, his coworkers seem to be seriously entertaining the idea.

“John,” Philip seethes, eyes wide and wild, “he’s not going to be in there for long!”

“I can’t!” John’s eyes dart from Sherlock’s office to the direction of the restrooms, “If I even move one piece of paper, he’ll be able to tell who moved which one! And even if I could, I wouldn’t! I’m not betraying his trust!”

Sally rolls her eyes. “What a perfect time he’s chosen to play the faithful little gay lover!”

Philip shakes his head reproachingly. “You’re letting us all down, John. You'll sink the ship.”

“Life isn’t _Battlestar Galactica_, Philip!”

“You’ve never even seen _Battlestar Galactica_, John. Best you can manage is something as soft-minded as _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_!”

“It’s a good book!” John counters back furiously.

“John!” Sally manages to break between the two men, “Don’t you want to know if he’s firing you or not? And don’t say ‘he wouldn’t’ because you don’t know that for sure.”

John is about to open his mouth, presumably to say ‘he wouldn’t’, but closes it promptly. He clenches his jaw and looks down at Sally defiantly.

The corner of Sally’s lips curl in sympathy, “I’m telling you this because I’ve seen situations like these twice in the companies I worked in before. Twice. Never count on your ‘familiarity’ with your boss to save you. Nobody is nobody’s friend, especially your boss.”

John looks to Molly for sympathy but finds Sally’s expression mirrored in her face. “She's right. Sherlock is, first and foremost, a manager. Remember the time he almost slashed our health insurance?"

_"Almost_ slashed, Molly," John points out.

"Managers don't care, and neither does Sherlock. And it's not like you're causing him harm! If it turns out he's firing you, wouldn't you want to prepare for it? I certainly would.”

John shakes his head, the conflict in him metastasising. Philip burrows through Sally and Molly to confront John.

“Sherlock is upper management. He’s driven by what Irene and the management order him to do. He’s on a different level than us. _We_ are on the same level as you, your colleagues... Think back; you were a soldier. You never left your comrades behind, did you?”

“Mrs Hudson,” John turns to his final court of appeal. “_You_ don’t believe he’s actually going to fire anybody, do you?”

Mrs Hudson doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not up to him, John. You know that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room. The day has turned into a shit storm for him.

“Uh, yes… I got caught in a crossfire on the battlefield once… How did I get out of it? Uh... I didn’t, at least not by myself. I got shot and a nurse called Bill Murray saved my life… Why do you ask?”

He lets out a defeated exhale. “I don’t like this… This, playing both sides. Sherlock versus the rest of us,” he shakes his head vigorously, almost as if he’s possessed, “I just wish it would strike five so I can just go home and sleep the day off…”

He buries his haggard face in his palms. “What am I even doing selling paper…? I wasted the entire day lip-reading and feeding Philip rubbish, filling his head with conspiracies and I’m not sure why I ever thought that would be hilarious... I’m turning thirty-one next year. My flat is shit, the plumbing is terrible... I’m in love with someone I could never have, everybody thinks I'm gay and I keep hitting things and getting angry at my clients for no apparent reason… So, what exactly am I doing here?”

He stares away into a corner of the conference room in vacant dismay. “I need to see someone.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John knocking on the door to Sherlock’s office. Behind him, several employees watch him apprehensively as if John were a ticking time bomb ready to blow them to smithereens.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up with a wide smile. “John! Come on in! Close the door.”

When John is finally seated, Sherlock begins with a visual inspection of John that sets the latter on edge. “So, what have you found?”

John tucks his chin into his chest for several long, contemplative moments. He takes a deep inhale as if gathering the courage. “They’re trying to curry favour with you.”

Sherlock frowns as if it’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. “What?!”

John clenches his fist under the desk. Giving his coworkers away is causing him physical discomfort and it shows in his puckered forehead and his self-loathing expression. “They’ve somehow found out you’re supposed to lay somebody off and… they’re trying to make themselves safe by, I don’t know, doing stuff for you and trying not to piss you off.”

Sherlock considers this for a brief moment but lets out a chuckle at the end. “But they _don’t_ piss me off! Their idiocy does, and God knows they can’t control _that_. Dogs bark, cats purr and people are stupid. How can one manage to control aeons of human evolution?”

Sherlock gives John a smirk like a comedian waiting for the laugh on their punch line, but John isn’t amused.

“Well, they believe they are, and that’s why everybody is being nice so that they have your favour. Can I go?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“How can Sherlock see through everyone so clearly and yet be so blind about himself?”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Sherlock in his office.

“But I _have_ no favour to give to anybody!” Sherlock insists, “No, that can’t be it. That was the first hypothesis I eliminated. Keep looking. They're planning something against me in all likelihood.”

John licks his lip and chuckles humourlessly. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

“What’s that?”

“Why do you even ask for my advice if you never consider it seriously?”

Sherlock glances at the camera in surprising embarrassment. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, John. I value your input.”

“No, you don’t. You just put on a big show with no intention of ever taking what I say seriously. Last time, I warned you against Sally and look what happened!”

“John—”

“And I wasted my entire day…” John rises from his chair, arms akimbo, “So, thank you very much but I’m done being your double agent.”

Sherlock extends a pacifying hand forward. “John, it’s not—”

“No, I’ve got work to do, I don’t want to participate in any more of your neurotic, harebrained schemes today. I only came to tell you this bit because everyone thinks I told you everything anyway so I thought why not make it come true.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “But you’re happy enough to participate in my 'neurotic, harebrained' pranks on Philip?”

“Of course,” John chuckles in disbelief, “it’s my fault. My fault that I keep participating in your schemes without ever knowing what you’ve actually got cooking. You never tell me your plans, you just want me to follow you blindly!”

Sherlock frowns out of genuine confusion. “There are quite many things a manager isn’t supposed to share with his employees. You can’t have special treatment from me. _You_ told me that, remember?”

There’s a very subtle shift in John’s eyes: from resentful to murderous, and Sherlock catches it, because he gulps and he squares his shoulders defensively, preparing for an assault. The shift makes John clench his fists and makes his breathing shallower. Shoulders hunched, eyes glaring from underneath knitted brows and a tight smile that knows no humour.

Sherlock's eyes go rabbit-wide and he takes a cautious step back. This is not the John who's led Sherlock through his brief corporate journey. This is the John who punched the kitchen counter upon finding out about furloughs.

“J-John...”

The briefest note of terror in Sherlock's otherwise resolute baritone makes John snap out of his temporary rage. Blinking away the look, his breathing grows irregular as colour drains from his face. He gasps, lips trembling, as if unable to believe what he had just been thinking. Sherlock’s eyes widen in alarm and he approaches John as if he were a wild horse with a predisposition for kicking.

“John…”

But before Sherlock can get another word in, John marches out and shuts the door behind him with a livid thud, leaving Sherlock gaping at the camera, pondering over the unfortunate end of their confrontational conversation.

“They're not currying favours!” Sherlock peers questioningly, indicating towards the office space outside. “They think I'm the bad guy! Currying favours with me, the bad guy, won’t save them from getting laid off! And how would they know about the layoff? I've lost a week worth of peace of mind keeping it a secret…”

He looks down at the lay-off and exit clearance documentation. He still hasn’t filled Henry’s name on to it. Playing with the edge of it, he gasps and turns to the camera in a flash.

“I had no recollection of receiving these documents in person! They were just there on my desk since the Christmas party… Someone kept them at my desk, which means someone saw them and brought them in. That’s how they all know… How could I be _so_ blind?”

He surveys the kingdom outside and his eyes come to a halt at the fax machine behind Molly Hooper.

Groaning to himself, he fidgets with a pen in his grip, digging into the woodwork on his desk. We see pieces of a puzzle coming together in his head reflected in his expression.

“There’s only one way to sort this, but now that I don’t have John’s support, I’d need…”

His eyes roam around the office until they come to a stop near Accounting.

“Sally said good morning to me today, didn’t she? And she willingly talked to me yesterday which was the first time she’s smiled at me. I'm assuming she's aboard the be-nice-to-Sherlock bandwagon too… She’s the head of Accounting, the only person who knows this thing better than I do. How much would you bet she’d be willing to do me a favour and keep mum about it?”

* * *

When an apprehensive Sally steps into Sherlock’s office, she looks as if she’s reciting a script in her head in expectation of the worst.

“Take a seat, Sally, and stop thinking so hard,” Sherlock waves her curtly into one of the chairs in front of her. This time, Sally does not smile. If she’s to be fired, there’s no point in courtesies.

“I’ll get right to the point but whatever I tell you must not be disclosed to the other employees.”

She nods curtly, remaining unmoving against any unfortunate announcements.

“As you all know by now, corporate has been breathing down my neck to make some pay cuts, but I refuse to allow lay-offs happen here. Based on my observations of other branches, lay-offs are a slippery slope. If I allow even one, they’ll push for more. They’ll try to cut more costs. I can see you're familiar with situations like that.”

Sally looks taken aback. She clearly hadn’t expected Sherlock to care, but she manages a decent nod anyway.

“I’ve gone through the budget and found no corners to cut. I refuse to go through it again so… can you do it?”

Sally blinks, nonplussed. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Sherlock frowns in confusion, “You’re a chartered accountant. This is _your_ area of expertise.”

Despite herself, she lets out a chuckle. “No, I don’t think I should. You’ll probably blame your decision on me later.”

Sherlock tilts his head and speaks in an uber-calm voice, evaluating her with his trademark scanning gaze. “You have a very low opinion of me.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Sherlock smirks. “And here I thought we were professionals.”

Sally puts up her hands. “Regardless, this does not fall within my job responsibilities.”

“Everybody wants to be king, but nobody wants to govern,” Sherlock’s mystifying smile is tinged with pity. “Didn’t you apply for my job, Sally? You certainly had a lot of opinions about my eligibility.”

Sally clenches her jaw. Low blow. “The quote is: _‘everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die’_. B.B. King.”

Sherlock snorts. “I’m not asking you to make a decision, Sally. I’m asking for your expertise. You know accounts better than I do, and for God’s sake, don’t make me repeat it. I dislike being outperformed.”

After a length of consideration and careful thought, Sally nods her agreement. “What do you need?”

Sherlock begins lining up binders worth of branch’s budget along the table, one by one, like men before a firing squad. “A full employee salary, plus benefits, approximately fifty grand. I’m going to need you to find fifty grand in the numbers.”

The sheer volume makes her sigh resignedly, “I’ll need some time.”

“Take as much as you need, and do it in my office, let no one in. I’m going outside for a smoke so don't touch my stuff.”

Sally lets out a snort, delving into the budget, “You sound just like Philip.”

Sherlock glares at her as if she's delivered the worst insult possible.

* * *

“Seriously?!” An incredulous Sherlock gapes at the numbers Sally shows him, “I earn _that_ much?!”

“Plus benefits extra.”

“But I don’t even…” Sherlock peers in astonishment at Sally and then at the books, “I don’t even _use_ it!”

“Yeah, right,” Sally scoffs, “How do you do shopping, then? Those suits must cost a fortune!”

“They just... exist.”

Sally bites her lip as if wondering with what sort of alien she’s talking. “Okay, um… what’s the last thing you bought?”

“A pedometer.”

“Right, and how did you buy that?”

“I swiped my card at a Tesco.”

Sally lets out a chuckle before going back to her books. “You’re so rich you don’t even know it.”

“At this moment, I feel the need to point out that I’m aware of the basic banking system in England but I really don’t use my salary all that much. And this,” he digs out his wallet to produce an Amex credit card, “is not even my card. It’s Mycroft’s!”

“Well, take a pay cut then,” Sally waves a flippant hand after her chuckles subside. “Half the layoffs wouldn’t happen if the execs weren’t taking off so much in salaries.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the break room. He’s lost all will to work and looks as if he’s just waiting for the clock to strike five so he can go home. He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even register Sally who drops by to get herself some fruit from the vending machines.

“John, you alright?”

Startled, John gazes up at her as if he was woken from a bad dream, but pulls off a convincing smile to deflect any suspicion. “Oh, Sally. Yeah, I’m fine.”

She presses her lips into a thin smile, punching in the code, and turns to catch a tentative glance of John. She clears her throat and then smiles politely at him.

“You told him we knew, didn’t you?”

John looks away and rises from his table. “I should get back to work.”

“Wait, John!” She retrieves an apple from the machine and crosses her arms, “It was wrong of us to force you into such an awkward position. You two are hooking up and he probably means a lot to you so it’s understandable that you didn’t want to betray his confidence. We were all just scared for our jobs so I hope you understand…”

“We’re not hooking—” John begins to shake his head but just gives up, “whatever, fuck it, it’s… it doesn’t matter. I was wrong too.”

Sally frowns. “How so?”

John chuckles to himself as if he can’t quite believe he’s baring his heart to Sally Donovan of all people. “I shouldn’t have got involved in the whole mess at all. Kept personal and professional separate. One doesn’t get brownie points for being ‘familiar’ with the boss after all.”

Sally throws her hands up. “I’m sorry I was harsh with you. I got caught in the heat of the moment and said stuff I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, you were absolutely right. It was a terrible thing for me to do, to run over people I’ve worked with for years just because—”

“John,” Sally puts up a hand to stop him and, for a brief moment, she looks as if she’s going to say _‘all is fair in love and war’_, but instead what she says is, “You’re right. You didn’t get brownie points for being ‘familiar’ with the boss. And that's the way it should be. It isn’t fair to the other employees when you get special treatment from the manager but… when Sherlock asked you to tell him what we were up to, wasn’t he asking for a personal favour from you also? He slipped up too.”

John’s chuckle is mostly humourless and a tiny bit incredulous. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just that everybody is a hypocrite. So don’t beat yourself up too much.”

And with that, she flashes him a commiserative smile before grabbing the apple and marching out of the break room, leaving a pondering John behind.

* * *

“Irene Adler’s office.”

Sherlock raises his head swiftly when the call connects, “Hey, uh… assistant.”

“Sherri.”

“Right,” Sherlock nods, “Sherri. Irene’s in a meeting.”

There’s an awkward beat. “Are you… asking or telling?”

Sherlock heaves an all-suffering sigh but wastes no time in berating her. “She said she wanted the name of the employee I let go by EOD.”

“Uh, yes. I believe she did.”

“Right. Tell her the name is ‘nobody’.”

Sherlock sniggers silently, his delight knowing no bounds, while Irene’s assistant on the other side of the line experiences veritable amounts of bewilderment. A moment later, her voice arrives, surprised, spluttering and having lost much of its edge.

“Pardon I, uh… didn’t get the name.”

“What name?” Sherlock chuckles into the back of his hand, revelling in her evident confusion.

“The name of the… employee that you, uh… let go.”

“There was no name. I’m not laying anybody off. Instead, I’ll be taking an 80% salary cut, which gives the branch enough leeway in its budget to retain all employees. Will you let Irene know this?”

“Wait, but—”

“Thanks, Sherri. Happy New Year in advance.”

Once Sherlock cuts the call, he leaps into the air with a squeal of happiness and clenches his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room like a child. Once he comes to a stop, he peers into the camera victoriously. Thankfully, it’s six pm and everybody except him has gone home.

“Did you _hear_ that woman? God, that was satisfying! In their faces! Yes!”

Sherlock does another happy twirl before sobering up for good. If anybody knew better, this probably is the highest moment in Sherlock’s brief career as branch manager of H&H Ferndale.

“They said I must gut one to save another, pit the survival of my branch against my employees,” he crosses his arms and quirks a smug eyebrow, “Those were the options on my table. I say: turn over the table—”

Sherlock’s landline begins to ring again, and he lets out a frustrated groan, his jubilant expression dropping entirely.

“Can’t even let me savour my moment of victory,” he picks up the phone and shrugs at the camera, “Real life catches up so fast.”


	17. Cocktail Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reconnects with an obnoxious associate at a cocktail party hosted by Mycroft at the Holmes' townhouse. Sherlock wants to show John the house he grew up in, but obstacles ensue. Greg's feelings of inadequacy make him turn to an unlikely sympathiser for solace. Philip tries to win Sally back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warnings for veiled homophobia usually prevalent in workplaces.
> 
> We've entered January 2008 in the story now (the recession year).

It’s nine-thirty by the time John arrives at the office, far late than most of his coworkers. Philip Anderson hands him a grave-looking note and returns to his work with the imperiousness of a child blowing the conductor’s whistle on a model train set.

“What’s this?” John peers at the note, “John Watson: tardiness?”

“That,” Philip clicks on the mouse to emphasise his theatrical nonchalance, “is a demerit. You’ve been late every single day this week and that’s unacceptable.”

“Ooh, love it,” John smirks at the camera, “I have a question.”

“Naturally.”

“Such as what is a demerit.”

Philip scoffs, “Let’s put it this way. You do not want to receive three of those.”

John nods mock-seriously, “Sounds serious.”

“It is.”

“Of course, when I was in Afghanistan, if we ever got late, we usually faced the threat of a court-martial, but sure, a demerit is a severe consequence, innit?”

Philip’s face sours and John gives the camera a triumphant look.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“I usually don’t bring up my time in Afghanistan, much less gloat about it. But Philip’s face sours when I do, especially when he acts like the hall monitor of the office. I think it stems from the nostalgia of his grammar school days where he was apparently known as The Stickler. So, he probably had the starchiest collar and the whitest converse shoes, and he’d probably bow down to the first ‘male presence’ he came across.”

John tugs at his shirt collar, somewhat smug, “Now, the last word when it comes to ‘being a man’ is called military service so…”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Philip desk clump. Philip is still caustic from their earlier interaction, and John is still revelling in the small pleasure it gave him.

“Oh, whew, look at me,” Philip growls mockingly at John, “I was in the army because I’m so noble and altruistic and that’s literally my whole personality! I use my veteran status to sell my clients paper because that’s the only way they’d buy from me!”

“Sounds just like me, Philip.”

“And I wear horrid jumpers because I left my taste in fashion in Afghanistan.”

“Thank you,” John pretends to be flattered, “my mum made it for me.”

Philip scoffs, “How pathetic. You gonna wear _that_ to Mycroft’s cocktail party tonight?”

“Uh, no, because I’m not going.”

“What? Why not?”

John appears at a loss of excuses, “Because I have… plans.”

Philip arches a disparaging eyebrow. “Like sitting in front of the telly and watching the game till you doze off?”

“Absolutely correct.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“So, there’s going to be a cocktail party. Which I’ll definitely not be going to,” he indicates to himself, “You’re looking at the master of declining invitations: drinks at the pub, birthdays, house parties, whatnot. I don’t mean to brag, but this New Year’s Eve, I was home by nine. By myself.”

He presses his lips together to contain his smugness.

“I suppose I’ll be missing out on some entertainment, though. Because what’s interesting about tonight’s party is that it’ll be hosted by Mycroft Holmes, the friendliest man I’ve ever met. At the Holmes’ townhouse. For, as he once put it, ‘lower-level company people’. Goes on to tell you how deep H&H’s troubles are.”

John lets out a snort before composing himself, “That’s what the band did aboard the Titanic, didn’t they? Played till the end to keep up the spirits while the ship sank.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Philip desk clump.

“Well, I’m going,” Philip shrugs, “Free food and champagne by the big boss? Yes, please.”

“More like Big Brother,” Sherlock, standing right behind John, interjects with a snide smirk and turns to John, “You’re not coming?”

John gulps and avoids Sherlock’s gaze at first, but ends up offering a tentative smile. “Figured I’d stay home. Bury my head and sleep through the weekend.”

Sherlock pouts. “Wish I had that luxury. Unfortunately, I have to be there.”

“No one’s forcing you.”

“No. But my fraternal instincts compel me to make a spectacle out of my brother in the very home we both grew up in so if you can make it, I’d be delighted to have the cooperation of a partner.”

John perks up at the proposition. “The very home you grew up in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods solemnly, but his silver eyes gleam the promise of mischief, “And if you’re useful, maybe you’ll be rewarded with a tour.”

“Of what?” John chuckles, “The bed you wetted when you were three?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, “This is my house we’re talking about, not Anderson’s.”

“Hey!” Philip looks up in outrage, “Bugger off!”

But neither Sherlock nor John pays him any mind, locked in a world of their own and engrossed in a conversation over arched eyebrows and smirks and pouts. It’s as if Philip doesn’t even exist for them. Philip rolls his eyes for dramatic effect.

“But not on my desk, please,” he smacks John’s desk to break them out of their reverie, making Sherlock scowl murderously at him. “Just wait till the evening and then you two can do it in Sherlock’s room. In private. Like normal people.”

“No, we’re not—” John begins halfheartedly, but Philip saunters out of there with a purpose. John lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I can’t wait for you to do Philip’s performance review in March,” he turns to Sherlock and licks his lips invitingly, “What about you?”

A cheeky smirk grows on Sherlock’s lips in response. “My daydreams are filled with little else, John.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“I have a good red shirt, but will it go with my tie…?”

* * *

Camera cuts to a sturdy, black-brick Georgian style townhouse in the heart of St. James’. It’s the Holmes family residence, a remnant of past wealth in an upper-class slice of the drab capital of great British empire. The possibly-century-old house is splendidly lit and sounds of polite chatter sweep down the street like harp melodies.

We catch John marching towards the house, fashionably late and looking dapper in a black jacket and a crimson shirt, his cheeks pink from the cold and his sandy blond hair sticking up in revolt against the chilly wind. He spots the camera crew and breaks into a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, I decided to come. As Philip put it, free food and booze. And…” he bites his lower lip till colour abandons it, “I’ve always been curious about what Sherlock was like as a child so…”

We follow John into the interiors of the Holmes’ townhouse: old, yellow, smelling of tea and old books and the right amount of shabby, beat-up furniture. It’s the sort of effortless wealth that speaks through its lack of display of said wealth and generations of decorum and stiff-upper-lip. The Holmeses are disdainfully rich and they don’t bother to roll it out for anybody, almost as if they’re making a statement about their genealogical superiority.

John looks around, appraising and turns to the camera. “So pretentious. Sherlock must’ve hated the place as a kid.”

Most of the Ferndale branch is present, congregated in a close-knitted clique, but they aren’t the only employees today. John indicates towards a scattered set of employees that look wealthier and are better-dressed than the rest.

“Those are the company execs,” he points at a middle-aged blonde woman with a short bob cut hairstyle chatting away to a politely-smiling Mycroft, “That’s Greg’s ex-wife, Anne. She’s the Legal & Compliance head of the company. Poor Greg, he’s going to lose it.”

He turns around to spot more familiar faces and meets Bill Wiggins’ eyes, who promptly looks away. John responds by turning away too.

“Everone at the branch is mad at me. They all think I’m a... rat,” the corner of John’s mouth curls defensively as he keeps sweeping the drawing-room and the stairs for a friendly face, “I just... they tried to make me work against Sherlock, and... I just... I couldn’t...” he shakes his head dazedly, stuffing his fists into his pockets. “As Sherlock would probably say, it just wasn’t in my programming or... where _is_ he?”

He briefly meets Sally Donovan’s fleeting eyes and turns away in an instant, closing his eyes and muttering his prayers like a man up for execution.

“Please don’t come here, please don’t come here...”

Alas, the prayers don’t work because Sally approaches him. “John!”

With a deep inhale and a tight smile, John turns to greet her reluctantly. “Sally.”

Sally hasn’t bothered to change out of her office clothes, which are a tad nicer than her usual outfit but still quite underdressed. Both the Holmeses and Sally seem to be making the same statement of disdainful nonchalance.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

John squares his shoulders and avoids her eye, “Philip tell you that?”

Perhaps it doesn’t strike John that his response comes across as passive-aggressive because Sally chuckles in discomfort and takes a startled step back.

“You sound like Sherlock.”

That seems to aggravate John even further, but he forces a polite smile through it.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yeah, I think he went upstairs with Irene and some of the corporate bunch. His part of the family, y’know.”

John nods tightly, smiling to suppress his irritation, “Upper management’s on the upper floors, yeah.”

Sally opens her mouth but closes it back like a trout who’s made landfall.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally at another corner of the house. Behind her, at quite a distance, we see John standing by himself, looking out of his depth: a depressing figure with a glass of half-drunk champagne.

“Oh God, he’s uncomfortable here, isn’t he?” she subtly denotes to John and turns back towards the camera, “I nearly blurted out to him... y’know, the fact that Sherlock chose not to lay anybody off and took a pay cut instead. Nobody knows that in the office...”

Sally glances around at her to make sure nobody is listening to her.

“Well, nobody except me, because I process salaries. In fact, Sherlock asked me not to tell anybody and it just... it doesn’t make sense! I mean, what’s the point of pretending to be Batman? Any normal person would advertise that they took one for the branch! After all the shitfuckery he’s done, the pay cut was the first real step he took to save our jobs! Well, except when he got the White Pages but it doesn’t count because it was unethical...”

Something strikes her and she frowns in disbelief.

“He doesn’t actually believe we’d hate him no matter what he did, right?”

Out of the corner of the frame, we see Philip turn up, looking smart in a suit, and make a beeline for Sally. Sally notices him and marches off towards her boyfriend with a groan.

* * *

Camera cuts back to John. He’s still riled up from his interaction with Sally.

“Is it a sign of trouble if Sally Donovan is the only one who’s being nice to me out of everybody in the office...?”

John trails off and his wandering gaze falls on a slim, pale and too-happy-to-be-genuine man holding the attention of a small group hostage near the fireplace. His bubbly manner of chatting people up is quite loud, obnoxious and flamboyant.

John abruptly closes his mouth and spins on his heel in the opposite direction, visibly cringing at the camera.

“Not _him._ Oh, god, no. I met him at Awards Day last year and he ate my ear off for an hour... Not literally!” John adds as clarification, tugging on an earlobe, “I’ll just meet up with Sherlock once and then I’ll go home to my cereal—”

He risks another glance at the man, but too late. The man has already spotted him and John heaves a resigned sigh. He dons a tortured smile for the camera and mutters “here we go”.

“Johnny boy!” The man spreads his arms wide and instantly abandons his group like used tissue paper. He approaches John with glee so triumphant it rivals that of an astronaut returning to earth after a successful mission.

“Jim,” John utters a hollow chuckle, extending his arms too: not in a hug but to mainly keep Jim at a distance, “how are ya?”

“Here’s Johnny! _The Shining_,” Jim indicates happily to the camera and hooks an overfriendly arm around John’s shoulders. John’s expression screams ‘_I want to go home’_ but now he’s in the thick of the party. Escape is impossible.

“The what?”

Jim rolls his eyes dramatically, “The Shining? 1980? The film, Johnny! _‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in’_...”

“Oh,” John groans but Jim is too happy to notice, “right.”

“That scene is my absolute favourite!”

“The one where the poor wife’s trapped in the toilet from her possessed, axe-wielding husband?” John pouts sarcastically, “Sure.”

“‘_Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin’,_” Jim does a perfect Jack Nicholson impression. “God, Shelley Duvall looked so retarded! Nicholson’s amazing in that film, isn't he?”

John tries to shimmy out of Jim’s grip and Jim does a bit of a facepalm.

“Whoops sorry, not supposed to call retarded people ‘retards' nowadays, aren’t we?”

“Okay, that’s horrifying enough! Chaps,” John blinks a silent Morse-code cry for help to the camera, indicating to his obnoxious colleague, “Meet Jim Moriarty. He’s the Bowes Park sales office manager and as you can see, he loves quoting... films.”

“Well, Johnny, Shakespeare’s overrated,” Jim tugs on his sleek black tie smoothly, “Time for Britain to move on from its cultural hangover.”

“Er...”

“I love these cameras following you around like a celebrity,” Jim withdraws his arm from around John to scrutinise and poke at the cameras and John lets out a silent sigh of relief, “Think we could have this at our branch too?”

John chuckles uncomfortably, “I don’t think so, Jim. Probably don’t have the budget for it, do ya chaps?”

“In that case,” Jim turns to John with a ‘gotcha’ look, “you should transfer over to Bowes Park. That way we could have the cameras too, right?”

“Ah, Jim, come on...” John begins shaking his head, but Jim ignores him and turns to the cameras anyway.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve tried to poach this guy for my branch,” Jim slaps John hard on the back, “but he’s a slippery eel, this one. Just a couple of months ago, I offered him better pay than what he makes at Ferndale—we’re H&H’s most profitable branch after all—but he still refused!”

“Sales office, not branch,” John corrects dubiously, but he’s ignored once again.

“But I just can’t seem to get this one,” Jim grabs John by the shoulders and John’s eyes widen in panic as Jim shakes him violently, “What’s the secret, Watson? Say those magic words. Why won’t you leave Ferndale?”

Alarmed at the whiplash caused by Jim’s rapid personality swings, John finds his gaze trailing away to rest over Sherlock’s mop of artful curls. As if on cue, Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s across the space of the drawing-room and the gulf between their worlds. The corner of his plush lips lift upwards in a mischievous half-smile and John pleads a silent call for help with his eyes.

Sherlock presses his lips together in amused understanding and blinks reassuredly. John perks up, gaining enough nitrous to tolerate Jim’s annoying presence until Sherlock comes over. And then John sees Sherlock turn to Irene Adler who, he hadn’t noticed, had been standing right beside Sherlock. He whispers in her ear and she does the same in a manner so uncomfortably intimate it turns John’s face ashen.

Sherlock struts over to John and Jim locked in a weird embrace that John has been desperately trying to break out of.

“Glad you could make it, John,” Sherlock interrupts smartly, causing Jim to change gears and grin widely in surprise.

“Hang on, I _know_ you, don’t I?”

Sherlock and John exchange reassuring glances before Sherlock turns back to Jim with a condescending smile, drawing to his fullest height.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, no.”

Jim giggles delightedly like a kid at a dinosaur exhibit, his wide eyes excited and menacing, “Oh, you’re the younger one, aren’t you? Word is you fucked Irene straight. Is that true?”

That catches Sherlock completely off-guard. He glances at John, who’s waiting for his answer like a wolf on the hunt.

“Don’t be absurd—”

“No, no, I can see you did, you playboy!” Jim chuckles, “Don’t worry, I wasn’t stealing your precious little employee here. Don’t get all possessive! Johnny and I,” with a giggle, he hooks an arm around John once again, ignoring the flinch it causes him, “we were... chatting.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards in amusement. “_‘Johnny’_ and you were... ‘chatting’?”

“Yes, we were,” John forces an anguished smile, signalling at Sherlock with wide, helpless eyes to rescue him, “and Jim was going to get me a drink, wasn’t he?”

“Careful, John!” Jim makes an attempt to pinch John in the chest, which John deflects expertly, “Might slip you something one of these days.”

“Dead easy,” Sherlock lets out a snort. “Show him something on the phone and then slip it in his glass. Did it twice.”

John frowns in alarmed bewilderment. “Wait, what?”

“Hilarious,” Jim removes his arm from around John and extends it towards Sherlock, “Jim Moriarty. Bowes Park branch manager.”

“Sales office,” John corrects once again, but he’s woefully ignored once again. Sherlock eyes Jim’s handshake warily and takes it, assessing the man from top to bottom. But Jim holds up well to his intense scrutiny, grinning in a happy-go-lucky manner.

"Sherlock Holmes. Ferndale."

“So nice to _finally_ meet you, Sherlock!” Jim throws himself at Sherlock with a hug as giant as someone as small as he can offer before Sherlock can push him away. Sherlock winces at the impact, making a distasteful face at John. John mouths “tag, you’re it” to Sherlock with a cheeky grin, amused by someone getting the short end of the stick for once. Sherlock responds with a melodramatic expression of despair, making John chuckle.

“So what is it you find attractive about Irene?” Jim finally withdraws and, seemingly having forgotten John’s presence, giggles delightedly, “Because, if you ask me, she’d make an excellent corpse on Miss Marple.”

Sherlock frowns in incredulity and Jim catches on to that.

“You know, there was this meeting at corporate a couple of months ago: she just wasn’t moving, and I had to check if she was alive! She’s just cold and dead. Unless you’re into necrophilia, which is fine—”

“If there’s anybody in the room who might be into necrophilia, it’s probably you, Jim.”

The low, feminine honey drawl makes John turn and find himself face-to-face with Irene Adler, dressed in a crimson dress in contrast with the muted tones of the Holmes residence. Jim and Sherlock both turn to face Irene, who throws their little black-tie boys’ club a scornful glare.

“Come on then, Mycroft is calling us all upstairs.”

Sherlock frowns. “Mycroft? Calling _people?”_

“The managers,” Irene clarifies, and with a last look at a John who looks increasingly out-of-place, sashays away. Jim lets out an amused chortle.

“That woman, woof!” he rolls his eyes and, to John’s dismay, they follow after her. Sherlock turns back just in time to throw John an apologetic glance but John shrugs it away, turning his back to Sherlock so the latter doesn’t see how pissed off he is.

“Hope he enjoys it up there. With ‘the managers’.”

He snatches a glass of champagne from a waiter and proceeds to sulk in a corner.

* * *

Camera cuts to a cavernous, dimly lit room in the first floor of the Holmes residence. The furniture here looks newer but it still carries the effortless superiority one might associate with Mycroft Holmes. It’s a vast library; its walls are lined with books and filled with the scents of wood and vanilla and whisky. The crackling fire accentuates the enigmatic charm of the room. It would’ve been a pleasant place to rest after a weary day with work had it not been filled with H&H execs chatting around like squawking geese.

Sherlock reaches the door to the library with Jim Moriarty and abandons him at once to make a beeline towards Mycroft, who’s silently peering at the street. From the window, one can see the clock face of St. James’ Church and a significant portion of Piccadilly. Mycroft notices his brother’s presence and pours him a glass of Scotch in silence: perhaps the closest one can get to witnessing Holmesian tokens of brotherly affection and understanding.

Sherlock sniffs the drink. “Pimping out the twenty-year-old for _them,_ are we?”

Mycroft’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We all fall, Sherlock. All of us do.”

* * *

“This was a gift from Sir William, now Lord, Rees-Mogg. I went to school with old Jacob,” Mycroft pours the same drink in Jim Moriarty’s glass, “Twenty-year-old, single malt Scotch.”

“To Sir Rees-Mogg,” Jim raises his glass, “and the government thought police.”

He slurps the drink in delight while the rest of the managers congregated in the sofas around the coffee table squint at him in confusion before politely sipping their drinks. Sherlock glances at the camera and turns his gaze to the two women sitting across him. Irene and Anne are the only women in the room and in H&H’s upper management: a testament to the company’s lack of diversity hiring.

Sherlock meets Irene’s eyes and they down their drinks like comrades before leaving for the trenches.

“Nice dress, boss,” one of the men impudently denotes to Irene’s crimson dress which stands out against the black and grey and navy blue of the rest. Irene doesn’t smile, just crosses her legs in a mystifying fashion.

“Thank you, Jerry but that won’t buy you points for performance review.”

That elicits scattered titters from the group, and the man called Jerry clenches his jaw in annoyance. “No, it’s just, I was talking about the statement you were making with your dress. We, uh, get it.”

Irene frowns. “Wh-what statement, exactly?”

“You know, that you’ve come back to bat for the team,” Jerry, ever the steaming pile of vomit, continues, eyeing Sherlock snidely, “We accept it.”

Sherlock is about to open his mouth but Irene silently and subtly shakes her head. He frowns in confusion and she scowls at him like a mother hen, “Good heavens, aren’t I glad to be _accepted?”_

Jim Moriarty, however, doesn’t hold back. “No, Jerry, you idiot! If anything, she’s making the opposite statement. You know, like Oscar Wilde.”

Mycroft heaves a sigh, begging to be rescued, while chuckles ensue around the table. Another, glancing at Mycroft for approval, even goes further to say, “At least Irene won’t sue for libel.”

“Oh, no,” Irene smirks just as mockingly, sipping on her Scotch as if nothing has the capability to cause her damage, “if anything, I’m flattered to be compared to Oscar Wilde at all.”

Her smirk dies away as her hateful gaze rests on a detached Mycroft, who does or says nothing to keep the decorum and discourage the veiled animosity in the room.

* * *

Camera cuts to Mycroft out of earshot of the rest of the managers.

“Please, slit my wrists with a butter knife.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the main gathering of the employees downstairs. A worn-down-close-to-pulling–her-hair-out-in-frustration Sally is stuck between Brandon—her Idris Elbaesque boyfriend she brought over during the Christmas party—and Philip who’s wildly trying to match up to him.

“Are you serious?” Philip demands, “Obi-Wan Kenobi was taken to the Jedi Academy for training at the young age of three. If he can attend school at three, so can I!”

Brandon rolls his eyes. “Yes, but, three is a relatively old age for an individual to be taken to the Academy for training, so it’s still okay for him. For you to start school at three? Nah!”

Philip’s lip curls in contempt. “Intelligent people like myself start school earlier than the rest.”

“Intelligent people don’t compare themselves to Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Brandon retorts with a chuckle, shaking his head at Sally, “Seriously, you dated _this_ clown?”

“I can’t believe it, Sally,” Philip scoffs at her, imitating Brandon’s manner, “How can you date _this_ clown?”

“Who you calling a clown?” Brandon, who’s at least twice as big as Philip, squares his shoulders and bares his teeth, but Philip, infused with stupid courage, doesn’t back down.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were stupid _and_ deaf!”

“Boys, BOYS!” Sally finally steps between them when she sees they’re beginning to attract attention. She glares at the two of them, pushing the two apart like a referee and lets out an all-suffering sigh. “Brandon, give me two minutes, I’ll be right back.”

With that, she grabs Philip by the sleeve of his suit jacket and drags him away.

* * *

Camera cuts to the first bedroom near the staircase. Insect collections, heaps of dusty books, a skull painting, a sheet music stand next to a violin case and an otherwise spotlessly maintained room: it can only belong to Sherlock Holmes. But Sally and Philip, preoccupied with the fight that almost took place downstairs, pay no attention to any of the room’s contents.

Strains of chatter and piano music from the downstairs float in, the distance of it making Philip smug that Sally has chosen privacy with him over champagne with Brandon.

“You want to do it in here? Fine by me.”

He tugs at the lapel of his suit jacket suggestively and Sally throws him a dirty look.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Philip?!”

The vehemence in her language smacks the confidence out of Philip. He frowns and tries to close the door behind him but Sally sticks out an aggressive arm to prevent him.

“I have told you a million times, Philip! I don’t want to see your face. I don’t want to talk to you ever again outside of work. Why can’t you respect that?”

“I _am_ respecting that!” Philip hisses back, “But you are making the biggest mistake of your life and I won’t stand by and watch you do it!”

Sally’s bottom lip quivers, “_You_ were the biggest mistake of my life, get that?”

Philip jerks backwards, staggering. “That’s a lie.”

“It’s not, and you know why I know that? Because you’re a cheater, Philip. You cheated on your ex with me, and just moments ago, you assumed I was going to cheat on Brandon with you and the moment you and I get together, you’re going to cheat on me!”

“No, no,” Philip grabs her hands, covering her palms with his lingering ones, “That’s not true, monkey. Jackie was an isolated case. I hated being with her.”

“Oh, please!”

“You have no idea the way she treated me. She emasculated me! I was miserable with her.”

Sally bites her bottom lip, her face painfully scrunching up to restrain her tears. The pain she refused to shed that day seems to return in full measure. “That’s no excuse. You could’ve broken up with her before...”

“I love you, please,” Philip pleads, but Sally retracts, turning away and swallowing.

“You broke me once, Philip,” she shakes her head erratically, “I-I can’t keep being strong anymore so j-just-just stay away from me or, honest-to-God,” her voice cracks at this point, “I will report you to HR.”

That threat works on Philip. Stung by her words, he stumbles backwards, his breathing becoming shallower by the minute. There’s a sudden outbreak of voices behind them, among which Mycroft’s snide platitudes can be distinctly heard. Without leaving the discovery of their clandestine fight up to chance, Philip slides out of the room. Sally pushes past the cameras and rushes into the ensuite bathroom with a choked sob.

* * *

Camera cuts to the main gathering of the employees downstairs. Greg Lestrade is busy typing away on his phone. Greg’s ex-wife, Anne, having finished mingling with the management upstairs, approaches him from behind and before she can even call him by name, he frowns in recognition, picking up on her perfume.

He turns on his feet only to meet her eyes. Anne smiles tightly.

“Greg.”

He frowns. “I thought you couldn’t get a sitter for Alyssa.”

Anne chuckles. “Good evening to you too.”

Greg tetchily eyes a glass of whisky before replying, “Sorry. How are you?”

“I’m fine. My mum’s watching her.”

Greg grits his teeth, eyeing the whisky again like he really needs it. “Anne—”

“Because you still can’t expect me to keep choosing between Alyssa and my job!”

Greg scoffs. “I never said that! And, just FYI, _I_ was willing to sit at home with her.”

Anne smiles pityingly, “My mum is more than capable!”

“Yeah, of filling _my_ daughter’s head with poison!”

_“Our_ daughter!” Anne hisses.

He shakes his head, chuckling in resignation, “I can’t even—I’m out of here!”

Anne is about to retort, but their conversation has grown heated enough to attract attention from onlookers. Greg marches out of the drawing-room with purpose, navigating halls and kitchens and on and on till he reaches the backyard and the odour of stale smoke reaches him.

He steals a glimpse of the warm, comfortable house with its hostile guests and strong whisky. And then turns back towards the chilly, dark garden stripped naked by winter. Sounds of the city, distant horns and sirens and gurgling of water in drain pipes reach him along with the familiar stench of cigarette smoke and he makes a beeline for it.

Hidden behind a couple of bushes, Mycroft’s pale, delicate fingers are wrapped around a cigarette. He sucks in the smoke through his long, column-like neck before opening his mouth.

“Four months,” Mycroft taps to let the ashes detach from the cigarette without bothering even to look up, “go back, or you’ll fall into this bad habit again.”

Greg casts a look around to check that it’s him Mycroft is addressing. He approaches him warily, “Six months, actually.”

“You fell off the wagon once, when I came to Ferndale last time,” Mycroft turns to Greg with a polite smile that, for the first time, reaches his eyes but drops before Greg seems to be able to process it. Greg stuffs his fists into his pocket and finally decides to join Mycroft. He eyes the tendon in Mycroft’s neck before looking away with a gulp to stare at anything else, even the dull wall around the townhouse and the city lights beyond it.

The city is noisy, but silence still engulfs the two men and everything, including all worldly problems, seems like a distant buzz that needn’t be bothered about just yet.

At length, Greg decides to look back up at Mycroft.

“Got an extra one?”

Mycroft does not question or chastise. He reaches into the cigarette case in his breast pocket and offers it to Greg along with his lighter. The exchange of the small rectangular container of butane prompts a drag of fingers over fingers that lingers a little too long.

“I hate these parties,” Mycroft admits, still not looking at Greg.

Greg flicks the light on and closes his eyes, revelling the familiar warmth of the smoke and the natural, quiet companionship.

“Me too.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John inside Sherlock’s childhood bedroom. He gives the camera a defiant stare, shrugging.

“What? Sherlock promised me a tour and he’s disappeared god-knows-where. So I’m doing the tour by myself. After all, self-help is the best help.”

There’s a little collection of framed pictures stop a bedside cabinet and hanging on the wall. John lets out a fond chuckle upon spotting a teen Sherlock with an adult Mycroft. He glances at the camera, biting his bottom lip in embarrassment as if he’s just found Sherlock’s secret stash of pornography.

“Look at him,” he snorts, pointing at a particularly stroppy-looking teenage Sherlock sitting next to a red-haired and equally glum Mycroft, “God, he was adorable. Such a drama queen.”

John takes out his phone and begins to click pictures, chuckling to himself all the time. “Blackmail,” he presses his lips together in amusement, “He laughed at my pictures, so I’ll laugh at his.”

He comes across another picture of a teen Sherlock in black graduation robes, still sullen. John’s smile fades and he reaches out to trace a corner of the photo with resigned affection deeply tinged with desperate longing, the sort of smile one has when looking at a person they love deeply but can never have the way they want. It’s not just a photo of who John feels he’ll never have, but also a reminder of what he never got: graduation.

John is so engrossed in the picture that he doesn't immediately realise someone is occupying the ensuite bathroom, sniffling and weeping. Alert at once, he instinctively feels for something in his right abdomen—a gun—and lets out a sigh upon remembering that it’s just a civilian in the bathroom.

“Hello?” he calls out, treading cautiously. He knocks on the bathroom door and the sniffles cease. “You alright in there?”

“Yes,” Sally’s voice, rougher and weaker than usual, comes out at length.

“Sally? Is that you?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, John, just...”

“You need me to call someone? Mrs Hudson, maybe?”

Sounds of a tap running. “No, I’m fine.”

John glances at the camera suspiciously, choosing his next words with care. “Sally, did someone...? Are you hurt?”

The bathroom door swings open, revealing a distraught Sally with puffy, red eyes. She’s trying to look angry, masking her hurt with it. “It’s nothing, it was just a personal thing.”

John doesn’t seem to believe her. “You sure?”

“Just...” she lets out a chuckle but it’s choked and isn’t as effective at dissipating the tension as she’d probably hoped, “your deskmate is an arsehole.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg and Mycroft still smoking in the cold, but now facing each other. Mycroft appears to be merely watching a talking Greg silently, head tilted to the side in attention.

“... It’s the mother,” Greg shakes his head, his cheeks pink from the cold and the number of drinks he has had inside, “She never liked me. Always thought I wasn’t good enough for her daughter and all, too little for her and so on...”

He takes another drag of the cigarette before resuming his monologue, “Well, it’s all done now, Anne and I are divorced, which is fine. I’ve finally moved on. But now, she’s just telling the same lies to my daughter! I mean, what the _hell_ is wrong with that woman?”

It’s Mycroft’s third consecutive cigarette but, for an inexplicable reason, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“And now, my daughter is going to grow up believing her father’s a good-for-nothing who couldn’t even keep the family together and writes bloody stupid crime novels that’ll never see the light of day! And,” he lets out a miserable chuckle, “I have no idea why I’m even telling _you_ all of this...”

Mycroft perks up at that and then casts a glimpse at Greg’s arms as if to confirm the factoid. “You’re writing a book?”

Greg frowns suspiciously. “Why, you find that hard to believe?!”

“No, I don’t see it...” Mycroft indicates to his wrists, “any marks, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I haven’t written in a while,” Greg lets out a tired sigh, pressing his fingers to his eyes, “They’re probably shit, so why even bother?”

Mycroft nods, lighting his fourth cigarette but it’s silence and helplessness that suffocate Greg. Mycroft glances at him, his eyes searching and calculating, but never coming to rest. Finally, he decides to stop trying to figure Greg out.

“I’m writing one, too.”

Greg looks up to peer at Mycroft in surprise. “Really?”

“Well, it’s written already. Gone to the publishers, in fact. So, if you... do finish your book, I’ll be happy to help with an agent and so forth.”

Greg nods, contemplating the opportunity. “What’s your book about?”

Mycroft pauses, observing the glowing end of his cigarette, comparing it to the blurred city lights. “Management.”

“Is that something you wanted to write about or just a thing CEOs need to do?”

Mycroft lets out a resonant chuckle that pierces through the chilly air and makes Greg smile, “The latter, I’m afraid.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sally is standing near the door, trying to talk her feelings out of her and John is sat on the bed, alternating between listening to Sally and zoning out to gaze at Sherlock’s childhood pictures absentmindedly.

“I admire how dedicated Philip is to his job, you know,” Sally shakes her head and she buries her face in her palms, her voice too pained to even verbalise her thoughts, “I just...”

She trails away, trying to compose herself. John tries to steal a peek at her face obscured by shadows.

“It’s okay, Sally,” John tries in a gentler tone, “You don’t have to keep composing yourself, y’know.”

“I just...” she chokes up, “I wish I had Philip’s unconditional dedication, I wish I wasn’t so... I really wish I at least had my job to look forward to, like Philip does...”

John clenches his jaw. Her words and the churning frustration underneath her repressed exterior are hitting far too close to home.

“He has this intense commitment and passion and... and,” she gulps, “maybe that’s why I was so blindsided when I found out he was cheating. I-I truly didn’t think a man who’s so loyal to his company could be... could be disloyal to his girlfriend.”

With that, she breaks into silent gasps, burying her face in her palms. John looks like he wants to reach out and comfort, even tries getting up but he plops back down on Sherlock’s bed, legs paralysed into inaction. He pinches the bedsheet, clenching it in his fists as white as chalk, unable to comfort her. Sally wipes the tears before they fall and takes a deep breath.

“And now, he keeps reminding me of what we had! I felt strong with him, I had some... some sort of... I don’t know... I found agency in Philip. I gave him good advice and he listened,” her breathing keeps getting shallower and her voice weaker, “The two of us, together, could do anything we wanted to and... just... I’m sorry, John,” she gulps, “I know you’ve got problems with the branch and...”

“No!” John blurts out but it comes up hoarse and cracked and he doesn’t dare utter another word, doesn’t dare reveal his innermost thoughts in front of her even though she’s pretty much voiced those very thoughts and fears for him. He clears his throat and avoids looking directly at her. His grip on the bedsheet gets tighter, pulling out the edges.

Sally straightens up, backtracking into staying strong once again. “No, I really am. Sorry, it’s... We all really thought you and Sherlock were dating and... and I’m sorry that sort of untrue gossip made you...”

John holds up a restraining palm, closing Sally to shut her mouth. He bites on his bottom lip and glances at Sherlock’s graduation picture, caressing him with his eyes. She notices the tender melancholy on his face and her eyes go wide in realisation. It’s only after a long time that John looks up and realises that Sally has read everything there’s to be read about him.

“So, it _is_ true.”

John doesn’t look up anymore. He lets out a exhale of resignation, his deepest, darkest secret finally out in the open to be ridiculed.

“No.”

“I saw that look, John,” she tiptoes and sits beside him on the bed, far enough to not touch.

John presses his lips together, his whole body fighting him not to say those things out loud. The bedsheet twists beneath his desperately scrunched fists, nails digging into the fabric, tearing into it and his shoulders quake with the effort. Sally looks down at her lap, at a loss of words for the situation.

“So that kiss during Christmas...”

“It was terrible,” John shakes his head, his voice a weak murmur, “He clearly didn’t want to... and I was... I just...”

She chuckles, but it’s mostly a sympathetic pity than amusement, “Yeah, that was hard to watch.”

John lets out a disbelieving laugh at that too but it’s more of a strangled noise. “It’s just...”

He reaches out towards Sherlock’s picture and cradles it in his lap as if it were the Holy Grail. “It’s just… Sherlock is just, he’s mad, he’s brilliant and,” he gulps audibly to control himself for a moment, “he’s just so funny, he just makes me, well... he makes me want to punch him but he also makes me feel so... I’m sorry, I just can’t,” he shakes his head, his voice a hoarse, pained whisper, “I can’t say it.”

He lets the bedsheet go and inhales deeply, beginning to detach and compartmentalise. He stares vacantly at the wall ahead, unable to believe all that just came out of his mouth.

“That’s okay, John,” Sally smiles sadly, “A lot of us want to punch him, too.”

John chuckles, “I know a lot of people think he’s sorta dickish, and he is, by the way, but there’s so much more to him and it… I can’t,” he shuts his eyes tight and emits a desperate groan, “I can’t... see him... with Irene.”

Sally scoffs in disbelief, “Christ, John, why haven’t you told him?”

John shakes his head vehemently, not even daring to entertain the thought, “Because nothing will come out of it! Because he doesn’t... Anyway, Irene’s better for him. They’re both beautiful, equally clever, plus I found out they’ve known each other for a decade. A decade! How would I ever stand a chance? I don’t even know Sherlock’s middle name...”

He looks down at Sherlock’s photo, his fingers lingering on the edge of the frame, and repeats in an impossibly small tone, “I don’t even know his middle name.”

Silence falls between them, long and conflicted and cathartic. Sally looks away, towards the other wall and John places Sherlock’s picture back on the bedside drawer, aligning it with the line of dust. The piano music downstairs has died down, leaving only chatter as white noise. Sally watches a soft rain of dust zigzagging through a shaft of light entering the bedroom.

A sob nearly breaks through to the surface of John’s stoic face, but he barely manages to contain it by biting down on his knuckles.

“Do you hate him?” Sally asks quietly at last, “For dating someone else?”

John contemplates it with a lost expression: a question that is as personal to John as it is to Sally. Streams of mindless chatter filter into the room, as if from ghosts drifting in a separate plane of existence.

“It's a fine line. Between love and hate, I mean,” John finally utters, his voice normal and measured once again, “I’d leave before I cross it.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the main gathering of the employees in the drawing-room. Sally looks much more put together now and John is nowhere to be seen. Brandon, her date, has managed to pick up another chatting partner. Sally sneaks a peek at her watch. She’s been gone more than an hour and Brandon hadn’t even bothered to look for her.

From across the room, Philip meets her eyes and makes a beeline for her. She gulps, steadying herself as he makes his way to her like a student going to the headmaster for punishment.

She assesses him gravely and steals another glance of her oblivious date. Philip is taut as a string with expectation.

“I’m willing to stay friends,” she utters carefully but her eyes are severe and glaring, warning against future transgressions. “That is the line in the sand and if you cross it—”

“I won’t,” Philip promises breathlessly, “I won’t. I won’t.”

Sally looks uncertain, not entirely confident in his ability to keep to the boundaries. Regardless, she gives him a curt nod.

“Good.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in a desolate corner of the house. He throws the camera a dirty look while smuggling snacks out of the fridge.

“John left, did he? Well, he’s a military man, I suppose,” he shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, “Has to be back home by nine, hasn’t he? Sleep schedule’s more important than... anything... Anyway, that’s fine... hated this house when I was a child, so...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson slinking out of the Holmes’ townhouse. She spots the cameras filming and beckons excitedly, pulling something out of the purse.

It’s a photograph of a chubby teenage Mycroft under the feet of an excited-looking toddler Sherlock.

“I found the picture after searching for two hours...” she lets out a chuckle and then realises, “... Oh! We can use our phones for this stuff too, can’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes' townhouse for reference:
> 
> 'Here's Johnny' scene from The Shining (chances are you've already seen the movie but it'll always be a classic and up for a rewatch): <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDpipB4yehk>
> 
> Three separate lines with heavy foreshadowing are present in the chapter (one by Jim, one by John, and one by a random person in the scene with Mycroft and Irene). If you spot it, let me know ;)
> 
> I originally wrote John's confession scene with Mrs Hudson because it'd have been more plotty that way (it's another Chekhov's gun I planted multiple times over the previous chapters. You'll find out what it is in one of the final chapters of the story). But upon revising the chapter, I thought... Sally has a broken heart, John has a broken heart, John just doesn't say things out loud and I'm tired of seeing the Strong Black Woman giving good advice to white people trope on TV so I tied all those things together and re-wrote the last scene and it turned out to be less one-sided and more emotional
> 
> **EDIT**: I forgot to explain a fun detail in the chapter notes before, but the 'Lord Rees-Mogg' Mycroft mentions is Sir William Rees-Mogg, the first chairman of the erstwhile Broadcasting Standards Council (which went through some changes before being replaced by Ofcom in 2003). 'Jacob', the person Mycroft says he went to school with is Jacob Rees-Mogg, who is now the Leader of House of Commons under BoJo.
> 
> And Moriarty's comment about the 'government thought police' refers to the brand of censorship over the depiction of sex and violence on TV that Thatcher 'promised' as part of her 1987 reelection manifesto (that's right, the term when she resigned), and Lord Rees-Mogg enforced as chairman of the Broadcasting Standards Council. Just thought these tidbits would sorta shed some light on how posh Mycroft really is and what Jim's personality is going to be like.


	18. IT Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock crashes the H&H computer network once again and IT support is summoned, causing everybody's secrets to come pouring out.

“So guess what the company rep told me after that.”

Sally and Philip are sat around the kitchen table, swapping workplace tales during their mid-morning tea break. Sally’s fingers rake around her tea mug in fascinated exploration, her eyes wide and inquisitive, “What?”

Philip leans into her space, smug at having captured her imagination so vividly, “He said someone stole his identity.”

“That makes no sense!”

“I’m serious,” Philip chuckles, “First, his car “ran off” the road, then his house was overrun by fire ants—_fire ants_, of all things! And at last, when he saw he had no way out, he claimed someone stole his identity and I’d been calling up the wrong person!”

Sally shakes her head, sniggering into her tea, “The limits people go to!”

“I know! Just turn down salesmen directly! What the hell?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room. She presses her lips into a thin, defensive line, and dimples form on her flushed cheeks: the very picture of feigned indifference.

“What? He’s funny, that’s all. And it’s just tea! I can’t even have tea with him?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John near the copier machine, making his way through copying two heaps of sales forms diligently. As he waits for his print job to finish, he gazes in the direction of Sherlock’s office, where Sherlock is so engrossed in his computer that the man doesn’t even realise he’s chewing on a stapler. A fond smile blooms on John’s face at the sight, vanishing when he discovers the camera tracking his expressions.

“He’s bored again,” John clears his throat pointedly, checks his watch, “In two minutes, he’ll realise what he’s doing and scream in frustration.”

We wait to see if John’s prophecy comes true amid copier machine beeps and whirrs and Molly’s droning welcome of “Holmes & Holmes, this is Molly”. As John goes back to his desk and subtly points to his watch, we see the existential threat of boredom dawn on Sherlock, his features mixing with shock and outrage and…

“I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF!” Sherlock lets out a loud, desperate cry, attracting the attention of all the employees who take notice with brief snickers but soon return to their work like institutionalised prisoners who couldn’t care less. John arches a sardonic eyebrow at the camera.

“He’s become slightly predictable these days. Wonder why... I suppose corporate life claims even the best of us.”

“JOHN!” Sherlock yells out, and John—who, at one time, would’ve been ecstatic at being summoned by his bored manager because of the promise of mischief it held—steals a glance at the camera, his eyes foreboding. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down and checks his pulse as if preparing himself for battle.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office.

“Sometimes, I like to scream. John says I like the attention, but that’s not true at all. I simply feel like screaming at times. I used to do it three times a day when I first joined; now, I’ve come down to once a week. Greg says that’s progress so…”

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly and, for a moment, we’re transported back in time to the jumping, running, wild newcomer he used to be a few months ago. The Sherlock who once glanced at the stapler wondering if he’d have any use for office stationery ever in his life has progressed to hit himself in the head with the very same stapler.

“Maybe shooting things would help?” Sherlock trails away, “I know John keeps his handgun in the glove box of his car, and I know how to break in—no, don’t tell him that… No, I don’t think we can shoot guns in a workplace. Right? Something to do with one of those… safety things...”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in Sherlock’s office. Sherlock looks as if a pimply kid playing video games in his mother’s basement has just called him ‘newb’ on the internet.

“You wanted to see me?”

“What even is the purpose of firewalls?”

John lets out a resigned sigh. “Is that a serious question or a rhetorical one?”

Sherlock gives him a droll stare and beckons him over with a flick of his wrist. John swallows, his fingers tugging at his tie, clasping as if he’s trying to restrain himself from doing or saying something that could give away a dark secret. After a length of time, he decides to join Sherlock’s side, but with a deliberate wall of space between them.

“You planning on crashing the servers again?”

“I never ‘planned’. It merely... _happened.”_

“Sure, sure,” John nods, “Kids never ‘plan’ to break the china... What _are_ you doing?”

Sherlock smirks at the bemusement in John’s tone, “See for yourself.”

John leans in, but careful to maintain some self-conscious distance from Sherlock. On Sherlock’s monitor screen, we see a load of live CCTV screen feeds crammed into claustrophobic rectangles of grainy activity. John presses his lips together to hide his smile.

“And where did you hack in this time?”

“Mycroft’s computer.”

John shakes his head, pressing a fist against his lips as he emits a choked cough. It makes Sherlock look up at him, eyes as wide as saucers that stalk the progress of John’s mirth from quietly controlled to repressed chuckles. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock lets out a little smile, flushing crimson before clearing the air with a cough.

“You… _Why_ does your brother even have access to CCTV feeds?”

Sherlock lets out a brief chuckle. “He likes keeping an eye on things.”

“More like a ‘pathological need’, by the looks of it.”

That comment makes Sherlock’s lips twitch up in a ghost of a smirk before his eyes trail off towards John and Philip’s desk clump, where both salesmen have left their computers unmanned. A tendril of idea blossoms in his head and John picks up on the subtle shift in Sherlock’s relaxed manner.

“What is it?”

“Anderson. His desk is empty.”

John and Sherlock appraise the opportunity in front of them, and John risks a glance into Sherlock’s searing gaze. His eyes drop down to Sherlock’s lips, licking his own in return, and Sherlock gulps audibly in response.

“What?”

“You’ve, uh...” John motions to Sherlock’s nose, “got an eyelash there...”

Without warning, John reaches out and gently brushes the eyelash from an absolutely-still-Sherlock’s cheek.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Some-something loung and lond,” Sherlock nearly coughs, tearing his eyes away from John, “I mean… something loud and long and…uh, bizarre that makes him… chuck his computer in frustration.”

John’s breathing picks up audibly at how husky Sherlock’s voice is and he steps away in self-preservation. “How about 90s kids show theme tunes?”

Sherlock smirks in approval, having recovered from his little fumbling episode. “You get the tunes; I’ll break into his computer.”

* * *

It’s only a couple of minutes later that John and Sherlock reconvene at Philip’s still-vacant desk. Sherlock casts a furtive glance around, first at the other employees who might have noticed him fiddling with Philip’s computer, and second over Philip’s desk in attempts of guessing Philip’s password.

“Try ‘Dalek71’,” John offers, his head buried in his computer, “Teletubbies or Bob the Builder?”

“I have absolutely no clue what those are,” Sherlock hisses back, typing in John’s guess which turns out to be incorrect, “Is Dalek related to this... ‘Star Wars’ thing?” He flicks a finger on Philip’s coffee mug.

“Uh, no... Doctor Who, I think.”

“Right. Philip must have been here when he thought up his password,” Sherlock fiddles with the stationery, searching for clues. “What would I guess if I were an extra-competitive salesman with a prankster for a colleague who had an intuitive understanding of human nature and knew I liked science fiction and conspiracy theories? What’s the one thing I would fight hard to keep a secret from a man like that?”

John frowns. “_Intuitive understanding of human nature?_ How modest of you.”

“I was talking about _you.”_

“Oh...” John turns pink at the unexpected compliment, “wait, got it. Emailing you the mp3.”

“Don’t email; leaves a trace. Keep the file on a shared network drive.”

“Sherlock,” Molly’s voice floats in from the reception, “Internet’s slow again. Did you fiddle with something?”

“You work reception, Molly,” Sherlock counters back loudly, “Since when does Solitaire require internet?”

Molly purses her lips in annoyance, “I am studying for my exams.”

“And I wish you the very best of luck, but right now I’m on an important mission...” he drops his voice to a barely audible register for John, “Got the mp3.”

Working in tandem, John leaps from his chair to join Sherlock as he punches in the password, “Philip kept the fake MI6 application forms locked up in his desk. Now, the password. He types it in regularly so it can’t be too complicated. Judging by the fading patterns of the keyboard, there are no numbers in the password. No birthdates. It’s most likely a passphrase. Think, John! Use your knowledge of contemporary fiction!”

“He thinks I don’t know,” John takes another glance at Philip’s organised desk, “Don’t try James Bond... Someone like Philip will only prefer John le Carre, the real thing... try ‘SmileyForControl’.”

Sherlock frowns, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?!”

“Just...” John leans in closer to hijack the keyboard and types in the password, “trust me, I’ve been sitting next to Philip for years.”

The computer sings the login tune, and Sherlock takes a brief moment to appreciate John’s insight with a quick smirk before going back to work. After fiddling with the necessary settings, John lets out a pleased chuckle as Sherlock leans back into Philip’s chair to admire their teamwork.

“Damn, you’re brilliant.”

“Can’t take all the credit,” Sherlock tips his head up to preen at John, uncharacteristically embarrassed at the open praise, “You answered my questions.”

“You asked the right ones...” John gazes down at Sherlock with an impossibly worshipful look, “God, what are you even doing here in this boring office?”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to retort, but looks away as if John has asked the one question—intertwined with the unsaid, more damning one—Sherlock won’t answer. John retracts his lingering hand away from Sherlock, like shy ocean waves that would never dare kiss a shore orange from the dawn’s faint light. Even though John’s smile dies a slow death on the battlefield of his face, his gaze remains searching, trying to gauge Sherlock’s innermost thoughts. Sherlock, who glances in the direction of his office and settles for watching John’s empty chair—the witness to their numerous pranks—instead of its occupant standing right beside him. Until Mrs Hudson interrupts their fragile moment.

“Sherlock, the internet is broken!”

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock lets out an irritated sigh, “the internet does not get ‘broken’!”

“No, Sherlock, really,” John, having found a reprieve, retreats to his computer to confirm Mrs Hudson’s complaint, “It’s _really_ not working...”

“Oh, stupid!” Sherlock springs up from Philip’s chair, “I left the CCTV feeds on, that must have overloaded the network. Wait a minute...”

Sherlock barges into his office and urgently punches into the keyboard, “I disabled the firewall, but that shouldn’t crash...” And a horrible realisation washes over him, “John! From where did you get the mp3?”

“Uh... some website, why?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock hiding in the latter’s office. Outside, we see two newcomers in beige tee shirts working on John’s computer and several H&H Ferndale employers glaring daggers in the direction of Sherlock’s office. Like a two-person improv team, they look as guilty as they were having fun before.

“So, as I understand from the IT lads out there,” John begins, trying to appear as innocent about the incident as possible, “Sherlock disabled the firewall to stream the CCTV footage to his computer...”

“And John introduced the virus-laden mp3 file into the network drives,” Sherlock cuts in before John can list off his crimes, “thereby crashing the—”

John wheels onto Sherlock in hot protest, “_You_ told me to upload it to a network drive!”

“Why’d you even download it from a fishy site? Should’ve got it from YouTube!”

“You can’t download from YouTube!”

Sherlock lets out a scoff. “Oh, you’re a natural with computers, aren’t you?”

With a stubborn pursing of his lips, John pointedly turns away to glare at the cameras, “Between the two of us, we screwed the pooch on this one.”

Sherlock lets out an equally long-suffering sigh, “And Philip hasn’t even realised what we’ve done to his computer—”

“Hey!” Someone bangs loudly on the window to Sherlock’s office. We swivel around to see a pissed-off Sally, her arms akimbo, “If I have to stay one minute after five today because of this, you’re both dead.”

As she struts away, John, obviously chagrined by the open threat, turns to Sherlock, “Can you believe she still talks to you like that?”

But Sherlock waves a flippant hand at John, “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“It’s _not_ okay! I just...” John shakes his head, disappointment rolling off him in waves, “Why does he do this... Why does Sherlock always... accept shouting and namecalling and... disrespect so easily?”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John’s desk. H&H Ferndale is in a general state of chaos and confusion, with each employee vying for the IT personnel’s attention. We see a pouting, troubled-looking Mrs Hudson conferring with one of the two IT guys.

“I’m sorry,” the IT guy—a tall, Scottish chap—shrugs, “Your disk is corrupted, large chunks of memory arrays are missing, so you probably won’t have the data back. Your organisation never invested in OneDrive or an FTP server you could backup your file data to so...”

“Oh!” She lets out a pleased gasp, “I do have one drive for backup! Let me search in my filing cabinets!”

“No,” the IT guy shakes his head, “That’s not what I...”

But Mrs Hudson dives into her desk drawers, undeterred, “The IT support guy that came before you... Ralph, wasn’t he? Oh, such a nice boy! Helped with my car too!”

The IT guy glances at the camera with a grimace, “Er...”

“Anyway, he said I must make a copy at the end of every day to keep a backup.”

Surprised relief returns to the IT guy’s face. He clearly hadn’t expected so much initiative from someone so unfamiliar with computers. “Oh, so you have a backup drive? Perfect! I’ll need that, so I can restore your data to the previous day’s at least.”

Mrs Hudson smiles, “Oh, you hold on to your hat, Mr IT Guy! I will get you the copies. Making copies of your disk is very important.”

“It’s Craig, actually,” he gives an awkward shrug to the camera, “Not... Mr IT Guy.”

Mrs Hudson emits a victorious gasp at having found what she was looking for. She opens a filing cabinet drawer and pulls out a stack of papers. On every sheet, there’s a photocopy of a CD. Craig from IT looks from the photocopies to Mrs Hudson in puzzlement.

“Uh, what’s this?”

“Copies of the data,” Mrs Hudson chirps, as bright as a spring morning, “For backup.”

Shoulders drooping in defeat, Craig from IT glances at the camera: why did he even expect anything better?

* * *

Camera cuts to Craig from IT in the conference room, despairing face cradled by palms.

“Whoever did this had to be either a genius or with years of experience in computer networks. I know because I have a Masters in IT Engineering and a diploma in cybersecurity. I’m basically a glorified repairman. No, wait... I’m just a repairman.”

We point towards Sherlock and Craig gives a huff in response.

“Of course, it had to be _that_ weirdo. There’s something wrong with him. He knows way too much about my home life and how I spent New Years’.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg’s desk. We pan around the entire office floor: the branch is in disarray. Half the workstations are abandoned, with employees chattering or congregated around Greg’s computer, with only Craig from IT and Sherlock’s head visible among the sea of employees. As we approach, Sherlock, predictably the first to notice, rolls his eyes at the camera.

“This is ridiculous,” he huffs like a snubbed Victorian maiden, “I could do a better job than Craig the IT guy.”

Craig glares daggers at Sherlock sideways, “I’m here because you took down the network firewall.”

“Well, I’m sorry I provide you with some sort of employment, in that case,” Sherlock bites back, but shuts up when John gives him a pointed look. As if on cue, a video plays on Greg’s computer, a slow-motion clip of an animated man getting stabbed at close quarters and the trajectory of the spurting blood thereafter. Greg lets out a nearly inaudible groan but Sherlock’s eyes widen in delight.

Philip winces at the visual and peers at Greg in disbelief, “That’s the fifth murder video you’ve got. Why do you even... what is wrong with you?!”

* * *

Camera cuts to a thoroughly mortified Greg in the conference room.

“They’re research for the crime novel I’m writing,” he gulps audibly, covering his face with his palms, “I’m just glad they didn’t find my emails.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Craig from IT in the conference room.

“Oh, I found his emails, alright. Didn’t read them, though; I’m a professional. Though, I’m not entirely sure why he would want to hide emails with the CEO...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg’s desk. Craig from IT has relocated to another computer. Murmurs of the discoveries on Greg’s computer—Greg the HR, of all people—have shaken the Ferndale branch and Greg, too ashamed to put a lid on the growing gossip, lets the employees spout whatever comes to their mind.

“What d’you reckon people think about when they’re getting stabbed?” Molly pipes in thoughtfully, replaying the video.

“His final thoughts were probably somewhere along the lines of “OW OW OW SHIT! I GOT STABBED OW OW”,” Philip rolls his eyes at her as if she’s just asked a ridiculously stupid question, “like literally anybody who would get stabbed to death.”

“Why don’t I stab you and find out?” Sherlock murmurs and Philip turns to glare at him, but before he can retort, John cuts in effortlessly.

“I think you go into shock and don’t think much.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods in agreement, and John tries to hide his pleased smile, “The body locks down, entering a state of paralysis. The mind does the same, and you eventually faint. Animals respond similarly under attack by their predator. They pass out before dying and block out the event of being eating alive.”

That gory quick-fire earns Sherlock cricket-chirping radio silence from the rest of the branch. Sherlock, who, in a long time, looked excited to share his knowledge of stab wounds at his unsuspecting employees, turns to John for last-minute approval. John attempts a reassuring stretch of the lips, but it falls flat and unconvincing.

“Why am I not surprised...?” Sally sneers, shooting Sherlock a disapproving look, but whatever she is about to say is drowned under the insistent ring of Molly’s reception landline. Molly skips out of the crowd to return to her duty station, inspiring Philip to do the same.

“Maybe _you_ should give Greg a lesson in ‘Five Poisons That Can’t Be Detected By Autopsy’,” John gives Sherlock a playful nudge in the ribs, and the soft mutter of support is all Sherlock needs to stand up straight, chest puffed and confidence restored.

“Jesus, John!” Greg rolls his eyes, “It was just research for my book. I promise.”

“Actually, there are ten,” Sherlock points out smugly, and John catches his sidelong glance with a shared snigger that would otherwise pass between two schoolboys awaiting punishment outside the principal’s office.

“Sherlock!” Molly yells, “Irene’s on the line for you.”

John jolts away as if he’s been kicked in the behind in the midst of a pleasant dream. Sherlock lets out a defeated sigh, the first one to be called in by the principal.

“Fine, I’ll take her in my office.”

As Sherlock marches away towards his office, we see John wrap his arms around himself as if in self-defence. Mrs Hudson lets out a dainty chuckle.

“He’ll ‘take’ her in his office,” she giggles and Greg, relieved that the scrutiny has finally shifted from the violent content discovered on his computer, lets out a preoccupied laugh. He glances at John who barks out a weak chuckle to avert any suspicion.

Feeling exposed, John glances around to ascertain if anyone’s noticed his involuntary reaction and groans when he encounters Sally’s sympathetic eyes.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room. He looks like he’s folded a two pair for a handful of nothing.

“So, yeah... during the cocktail party, I... may have told Sally about some... feelings,” the word makes him wince like acid reflux, “I have... used to—used to have for Sherlock... I’d had a pretty rough week, both at work and home, and one too many drinks. And... right after people finally put the whole Christmas fiasco behind them, I ended up confiding in the one person I shouldn’t have confided in, so...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room.

“I’m not a big fan of John. But I feel bad for him. His face... shrivels when he hears talk about Irene and Sherlock... No, I don’t feel _guilty_ about it. Philip spread that rumour, not me... I swear it wasn’t me.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office.

“Yes, what?”

“Good morning to you too, Sherlock,” Irene on the phone sounds half-exasperated, half-entertained, “IT support informs me the issue was regarding a virus slipping past because the firewall was down?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The IT support is incompetent. There are several other factors they haven’t taken into consideration...”

“Well, in that case, I’d better come up to your branch, since you seem incapable of managing even—”

“No, NO!” Sherlock yells indignantly into the phone, “Don’t come! We’re quite fine, thank you.”

“Well, I’m driving up from Guildford anyway, entering Croydon as we speak,” she sniggers, obviously relishing Sherlock’s irritation, “Maybe I could stretch my legs...”

“Let me be clear, Ms Adler,” Sherlock seethes through clenched teeth, “_I_ don’t want you here!”

“Well regardless, Sherlock, IT support was a major issue during the skip-level meeting I conducted, and I’d like to be present during your... antics for once. And there’s something else we need to... discuss and I’d rather do it in person.”

“But—”

“See you in an hour,” and with that, the dial tone rings in Sherlock’s ear and he glares at the camera in annoyance.

“Wish I could fire Irene.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip at his desk. Philip waves his arms in dramatic frustration as Craig works on John’s computer and Sherlock, kneeled beside John’s chair, keeps up a steady stream of commentary punctuated by Philip’s seething.

“My computer is hacked!” Philip hisses, “Can you _please_ take a look at mine?”

“Sorry, mate,” Craig from IT shrugs, “It’s just a song. Your colleague’s computer is the origin point. He’s got it way worse.”

Philip rolls his eyes. “John doesn’t even work half the time. He spends hours in Sherlock’s office planning how to torment me just because I love my job.”

“You get tormented because you’re an idiot, Philip,” Sherlock quips, “Not because you ‘love your job’.”

“Fixing _my_ computer is more important,” Philip tries to override Sherlock while John watches their catfight with mild amusement, “I’ve got _real_ work to do!”

Craig glances at John who shoots him a casual ignore-him look. The resulting indifference in Craig from IT makes Philip glare daggers at him and, with his jaw set in a resolute line, he hits a couple of keys on the keyboard and the intro theme to ‘Bob the Builder’ begins blaring from Philip’s computer.

John, a master of poker faces, maintains an impressively unaffected facade while Sherlock nearly doubles up with silent laughter into the armrest of John’s chair.

Craig, meanwhile, lets out a tired sigh, “It’s just a song, mate. Just put your computer on mute.”

“It’s a symptom, ‘mate’,” Philip retorts, “I’ve been hacked! If you don’t take a look, I’ll keep working and my computer will keep playing this loudly. Your choice.”

“Do you mind?” Craig turns to John, causing Sherlock beside him to compose himself abruptly.

“Yeah, no, go ahead.”

Craig makes his way to Philip’s computer and opens a random program, causing the ‘Bob the Builder’ theme to play once again. He opens another, and the music restarts. He does it over and over, casting a surreptitious glance at John and Sherlock huddled at John’s desk, pretending to work on John’s infected computer.

* * *

Camera cuts to Craig from IT in the conference room.

“That computer hasn’t been ‘hacked’; the insufferable git had just left it unattended and those two,” he points at John and Sherlock from the conference room window, “probably came by and set every single Windows sound to play the whole Bob the Builder song. It should take me a second to fix this issue, but he’s been a tit to me so...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Craig and Philip at the latter’s desk.

“Sorry mate, the problem seems serious,” Craig shrugs, opening up a browser page and typing something rapidly, “You might have to take a shutdown for the entire workday. But don’t worry, I’m going to raise a ticket, and the issue will be resolved remotely by our standby IT team within forty-eight hours.”

Philip looks stricken by the possibility of loss of workhours as Craig works for a few silent moments and straightens with an air of finality.

“Also, you might want to get rid of those Illuminati websites. Never leave them on your work computer. Keep work and Reddit separate; just my twopence. And no, labelling them as ‘book club’ does not hide them from...” Craig does a sidelong glance at Sherlock and John, whose faces are red with glee, “pranksters.”

John claps a palm over his mouth to restrain the snort he emits upon seeing Philip’s dumbstruck face and looks at the camera with unbridled delight. Sherlock, however, jumps to his feet as if he’s hit the mother lode and trots up to Philip’s computer.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock sniggering in his office. John shakes his head at the camera.

“So that’s the full extent of his club of ‘free-thinkers’.”

The ‘Bob the Builder’ theme song plays outside once again, and John and Sherlock succumb to ungainly giggles.

“I found Philip’s Illuminati blogs,” Sherlock peers at his computer, “What’s a Roths-child...?”

There’s a knock on Sherlock’s door and, without waiting for Sherlock’s usual response of ‘come in’, it swings open, revealing an unamused Irene Adler. The ‘Bob the Builder’ theme keeps playing from Philip’s computer in the background, drowning out any ringing landlines, and John and Sherlock sober up real quick with silent, shared looks.

Looks that say: playtime is over; the principal is here.

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene and Sherlock in his office. Sherlock has his head buried in his palms as Irene takes off her coat and tosses it over a chair. Neither deigns to speak first until the silence stretches too long and unproductive for Irene.

“Well, you must have heard from your lovely big brother,” she takes out a bunch of files from her bag and waits for Sherlock to catch up. Sherlock sizes her up; shoes, shirt sleeves, hair, and straightens in realisation.

“I have not, but you drove here from Guildford. You look particularly pleased, so I’m assuming corporate closed the Guildford office.”

An amused smirk spreads on Irene’s lips as she leans back into her chair, arching a prompting eyebrow, “So?”

“You expect me to congratulate you?”

She shrugs, “Maybe. Won’t be closed for long, though. Just enough for Mycroft to be... ‘pissed off’.”

Sherlock assesses her severely, almost sympathising with her motivations, but he knows the bottom line. “Meanwhile, I expect my branch will be taking on their clients.”

“No,” Irene inspects her nails, as if the decision means nothing to her, “I’ve decided Bowes Park will take the clients. Mycroft agrees.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, taken aback. “What?! Why?”

All traces of humour disappear from Irene’s face as she sits up straight and stares him back, hard. “Think.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, expression grim.

“Guildford is closed, and their clients are going to Bowes Park. Only three more branches remain in Southern England, and Ferndale is on the bottom of that list... This branch is next on the chopping block... Why would Mycroft agree to that...?”

* * *

Camera cuts to the break room. It’s already lunch hour, and a comparative discussion on the extent of damage of their computers is underway between the employees: Philip and Sally, Mrs Hudson and Greg, Molly and Billy, each sat in groups of two on scattered tables except John, who is seated alone in the farthest corner of the break room and remains passive throughout.

“My client list is gone,” Philip commiserates, “Just last week, I threw away my Rolodex and uploaded the last bits to Outlook. Why’d I do that?”

Sally bites into her sandwich, “At least you can still make sales on the phone. All my spreadsheets are gone... probably have to ask Janine from Bowes Park if she’s kept any duplicates, ugh.”

“She probably hasn’t,” Mrs Hudson shakes her head, making Sally chuckle.

“I bet. How’s your end, Martha?”

“I have everything in hardcopies. Never trust technology.”

Greg frowns, “I thought Sherlock told you to copy everything onto your computer.”

“Well, isn’t it fortunate I forgot?” Mrs Hudson supplies cheerfully, “Considering the havoc Sherlock wreaked today... Where is he?” She glances around at the break room, and her eyes find a solitary John in a lonely corner, “John, I thought you two always had lunch together?”

“Uh, no, we don’t,” John tries a chuckle far too high-pitched, “Sometimes. Not most days, though... And he’s got Irene in his office so...”

“Ditched you for the manager, eh?” Philip sniggers. “Don’t worry, John. It happens.”

But before John can retort, Sally glares hot daggers at Philip, “It happens? When have _you_ ditched anyone to hang out with your manager?”

Philip’s mouth falls open, taken aback by the vehemence in Sally’s tone in John’s defence. The chuckles that had risen from Philip’s casual exclamation fizzle away and the sudden vacuum of chitchat combined with Philip’s shocked face makes Sally hide behind her lunch again.

“Uh,” Philip peers at her as if she were an alien, “That’s different. My manager is Sherlock. I’m not going to hang out with _him_.”

From the back of the break room, John glances at the camera, shaking his head in apprehension.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, unnaturally still against the frame of his chair but his nervous fingers give it away.

“No... I think Sally knows I told her in confidence... But she looks like she’s about to burst...”

He takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “Maybe if I ignore and pretend it never happened, it’ll all go away?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room.

“Something’s up. You see, I have a very sharp intuition when people are hiding things from me. Now, Sophie, who doesn’t like John, has been trying to be his friend since last week, and she’s never scolded that Philip... Oh, right, Sally. Why? What did I call her?”

* * *

Camera cuts to the kitchen. Sally is pouring herself some coffee. We see Mrs Hudson enter the kitchen, giving the camera a conspiratorial look and marching over to the refrigerator to pretend to rifle through its contents.

“How’s your computer now?” she gives Sally a sidelong glance, but Sally doesn’t pick up on her subtle, conversational tone.

“I recovered some of it. QuickBooks apparently keeps backups somewhere, so Craig is still working on it. How about you?”

“Oh, John helped me recover the vendor pricing list so...” Mrs Hudson crosses her fingers chirpily. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?”

Sally flashes her a polite smile, far more polite than she usually is with Mrs Hudson, “Oh yeah, he is.”

“He’s been withdrawn as of late, hasn’t he?”

Sally nods mutely, sipping from her coffee mug to avoid replying. Mrs Hudson glances at the camera with a secret smirk before proceeding with her nonchalant interrogation.

“I mean, John has always been very quiet. Sort of speaks more with his actions than words... Well, before Sherlock became manager, at least...”

“Uh...”

Mrs Hudson tracks Sally’s face for any expressions that might incriminate her, “He really changed for a while, but now he’s quieter than ever...”

“I don’t know, Martha,” Sally shrugs, and without thinking, proceeds to make herself another cup of coffee, “He seems the same to me.”

“Well, you’re not his friend, dear,” Mrs Hudson chirps sweetly, “_I_ know him properly; he isn’t—”

Sally interrupts her out a high-pitched chuckle, startling Mrs Hudson out of her skin, “That’s not—You’re not... Ugh, you’re so not...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room. She can barely contain the elation at her victory.

“Gotcha! Now just have to hit her at her weak spot... What? I might be old, but I’m still a saleswoman with thirty years of experience. This is what I do for a living.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Mrs Hudson and Sally in the kitchen. Mrs Hudson peers at her in faux-bemusement while Sally shakes her head, chuckling in denial.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Maybe there _are_ one or two things I know about the people of this branch that you don’t, Martha.”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs Hudson lets out an appalled scoff, folding her arms. “And that’s okay. You spend your time doing numbers all day. You don’t have to bother about _people.”_

Sally catapults a dirty frown, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Well,” she shrugs, making herself as small and insignificant as possible, “no offence to you but why else do you think accountants never become managers? People skills, that’s why.”

That earns Mrs Hudson an outraged scoff, “Oh really? _I_ can’t be the manager?”

Mrs Hudson inches away in a deliberate show of de-escalation, letting Sally appear larger, “I never said anything like that, dear. I just meant...”

“Yeah, Martha,” Sally puts her arms on her hips, “what _exactly_ did you mean?”

“Nothing! I...” her voice reduces to a squeak, “I-I know John... better than you...”

“Well, you don’t, alright? He’s heartbroken over someone who considers him a friend and he has to see him with a woman nearly every week, and I know what it’s like so... I know the state of his mind better than you!”

The stream of passionate words stutters to a stop as Sally realises what she’s just uttered under duress. Mrs Hudson glances at the camera in thinly-veiled shock, at a loss of words. This certainly wasn’t what she had been expecting.

“Wait, who?” She peers at Sally, who looks at the camera as if caught with the proverbial bird in the mouth and stalks away to avoid revealing anything further. Mrs Hudson turns to the camera, trying to piece her words together with the context of her earlier suspicion.

“She meant Sherlock, didn’t she?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson at Greg’s desk. He passes her a tenner, his face ashen.

“I’m never making a bet with you again, Mrs H.”

Mrs Hudson pockets the note, “You’re just bitter you got it wrong.”

Greg shakes his head. “It’s hardly my fault John lied to me about not dating Sherlock.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Billy at reception with Molly. The latter looks shaken with the news.

“Seriously? I thought the entire thing was a sham,” she reaches into her purse and hands him a fiver, “Sherlock literally got Irene a flat. That’s big. He never gets anyone anything. End of last quarter, I begged him to feed a document into the copier because I had glue all over my hands and everything I touched was sticking to me, and he still made me touch it.”

“That’s the point,” Billy shrugs, “Them two are in love, and John’s the sore thumb. Love triangle drama.”

“I called it, though,” Molly insists. “Back when they kissed during Christmas, remember?”

“Sorry doll, but you took it back, so... pay up.”

Molly rolls her eyes, and hands him another fiver, “Fine.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk, snatching his breath after a tedious fifteen-minute sale over the phone. As he stretches his arms, his eyes catch Molly’s, who gives him a sympathetic shrug-and-a-smile. John returns it weakly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion before he turns to glance at the camera.

“Why’s she looking at me like that?”

Philip, within earshot, hears John’s genuine confusion and heaves a long-suffering sigh, “Probably because she feels sorry for you about crushing on Sherlock.”

John’s frown vanishes in an instant, “Say what?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, face red with mortification, curled into himself like a centipede that just wants someone to step on him and end his life.

“Command the earth to swallow me up, won’t you...?” He tries a weak chuckle, aiming for light humour which falls flat on the ground, “I... used to have a crush on Sherlock. Used to, and now I... don’t,” he hesitates, looking down at his lap, “Riveting.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sally in the break room. Sally’s head hangs low in guilt as John folds his arms, trying to establish eye contact with her. We film from behind the plants.

“I told you one thing, Sally,” John’s tone is low, resigned, disappointed, and Sally refuses to look up, “One little thing, it was extremely personal, and I told you in absolute confidence and you...”

“John, I...”

“Should I go and spill the beans on what you said to me?”

She curls further into herself as John hangs in there, a bag of limp bones held up by a spine. When she does begin to speak up, her voice is choked and racked with remorse.

“I-I’m so sorry, John,” she shakes her head, “It’s just... I, oh, um, I know I was trying to... all my spreadsheets are gone and I’ve had to cooperate with Janine from Bowes Park all day, and Martha was going on about being a manager and all this stuff with Philip, and I... it was... you know he… I hope—I just hope... you can forgive me.”

John lets out a bitter chuckle as if wondering how he could ever be so stupid, “Uh, no. Not a chance,” he gulps, restraining his emotion, “Because... well, because—”

“In a way,” she pipes in before he can speak any further, “I have done you a favour.”

John scowls, “Really?”

“Yes. Now you get to tell Sherlock how you feel!”

“Excuse me?” John wolfs out a humourless laugh, “I ‘get’ to tell Sherlock?”

“Yes!” Sally flashes him a hallelujah smile, surprised she hadn’t thought of it before, “Because if you don’t tell Sherlock, how will you ever find out for real?”

“I don’t want to tell him because it was months ago!” John hisses, and Sally takes an incredulous step back.

“Uh, it was a week ago. Why would you say that?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, a cynical smile on his face.

“She spun the whole thing around on me!” He shakes his head, “Doing me a favour... I’m not telling Sherlock, alright? And even if I ever have to, it won’t be because I want to ‘find out for real’!” he lets out another incredulous chuckle.

“If I ever have to tell him, it’ll be because...” John glances in the direction of Sherlock’s office, trying to come up with reasons, “I don’t want to come between them... him and Irene, I mean... Yeah, I don’t want to find out if he feels the same way, because he... doesn’t. I’m not telling him because I want to find out anything. Of course not.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a frazzled John at his desk. Behind him, we see Irene has taken up the conference room as her temporary office, while Sherlock is in his own. Billy walks up to him with a photograph and deposits on John’s desk, smiling ear to ear. As soon as John spots it, he slams a book on it before glaring up at Billy. The loud noise attracts Sherlock’s attention, who emerges from his office to investigate.

“Like it? My birthday gift to you.”

John grits his teeth. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know. Just in advance, in case I forget... I like your colourful Christmas jumper. You should wear more colours, like your friends. Got the whole rainbow up for grabs, don’t you?”

John lifts the book to sneak a peek. It’s a photograph of Sherlock and John from Christmas—right after John had broken up with Sarah—when Billy had taken a candid of them opening their gifts. John appears like a deer caught in headlights and Sherlock, spontaneously glaring at the camera, looks agelessly handsome—a true candid.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Took it during Christmas. Don’t you remember...?”

“John.”

The baritone makes John slam the book back in alarm down before he turns to face Sherlock. Billy nearly falls off John’s desk in surprise.

“Oh, hey, Sherlock,” John greets with a tense nod, casting a cursory look around to take note of whether anyone is observing their interactions. But it’s only Billy who dares speak.

“Hey, boss, was just giving John a copy of that picture you asked me to send you.”

Sherlock glances at the camera, taken aback, “I didn’t ask for any picture... What I did ask you was for your quality check reports. Are they done?”

Billy’s happy-go-lucky mood transforms into trembling terror at once, “I-I will... I’ll get on that at once, boss.”

As Billy scampers away, Sherlock gives John a perfunctory nod and smirks to himself, enjoying the bit of authority before marching away towards the kitchen for his umpteenth coffee run. With a glance at the camera, John grabs the photograph and shoves it in a desk drawer, expression contemplative. He tries to return to his work, but his decommissioned computer doesn’t aid much in his mission.

John clasps his hands together as if trying to keep himself from doing something he doesn’t want to, but he knows he just has to. Decision taken, he rises from his chair, figure unnaturally stiff, before following Sherlock into the kitchen. His breathing falls heavier than usual, his fingers more twitchy and nervous than ever.

It’s now or never.

John comes to a stop near the kitchen door, a final second of hesitation. Scans the area around him for any potential eavesdroppers or interruptions. And gulps.

And throws open the kitchen door.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

Sherlock greets him with a small smile, the one reserved only for their solitary, non-pranking interactions, “John. Since Philip figured out what we did to his computer so, I am stepping things up...”

He snatches one glance of John’s flushed, serious face, and stutters to a stop, sobering quickly. The coffee machine beeps loudly, punctuating the silence between them. Sherlock doesn’t speak any further, not when he sees John trying to gather the last reserves of his courage.

“I...”

John indicates to a corner, looking down at his feet, before glancing up at Sherlock and trying to smile. It’d be so easy to take a left turn at this point, open his mouth to utter the truth but say anything else instead, anything but what he’s here to say and no one would ever be the wiser. But John could say it anyway and detach himself from the consequences just as easily: close his eyes, shut his ears and let the world play out the situation however it wants to. The line is right there, and all John has to do is step right over it.

“Um... So, I told Sally... during the cocktail party... so stupid...” he lets out a chuckle, just to let Sherlock know that he mustn’t attempt a critical analysis of anything John says, “I told Sally I had a ‘thing’ for you... when you first started here... it was just a random conversation, and I don’t know why I confided in her... So ridiculous...”

Sherlock goes absolutely motionless, the only movement in his body being the audible gulp in his throat. So motionless there might as well be DEFCON ONE ringing in his ears. Of all the things Sherlock Holmes ever expected to hear, this probably is the last.

“I mean why I told her,” John attempts another reassuring chuckle to stop his rambling, “Confided, told, the same thing, right...? So stupid; anyway, I just thought maybe you should hear it from me rather than, I mean, you know, Sally or anybody else.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, and John finally looks up at his catatonic face, pursing his lips and wondering whether to continue the censored version of his stream-of-consciousness. He looks back down at his shoes and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply before opening his mouth once again. Because if he’s already said so much, he might as well finish it.

“And honestly, it’s no big deal, okay? It was ages ago and then, you know, we kinda became friends and, well, you’re my manager and Irene turned up...”

That jolts Sherlock from his state of paralysis. “Actually, Irene is not...”

“And after that, I stopped feeling that way,” John overrides Sherlock before the latter can get any words in, “you know...”

Sherlock’s face falls. “Oh.”

“So, just want to let you know,” John, bolstered by the confidence provided by his half-truth, scans Sherlock’s face for any signs of discomfort, “It was a long time ago, and I promise I’m over it.”

Sherlock nods, “Right well, since we’re...” he presses his lips into a line, voice uncertain, “I thought... maybe you did.”

John’s eyes widen slightly, his breathing picking up once again, “Oh, y-you did? Of course, you did.”

“Well yes,” Sherlock begins to rattle off his observations, “From my first week onwards, you went out of your way to help me with the job, you worked with me, spent so much time around me with making sales and dealing with clients and empathising with their plight and understanding their needs...”

John dips his head low, cringing with every passing moment upon hearing his actions being analysed so methodically by Sherlock. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“In fact, your sales went down for a bit because you were spending so much time in my office. And you never expected anything in return—”

John lets out an uncomfortable chuckle, “Oh no, couldn’t you tell? I was sucking up to you. Expected a promotion in return.”

That makes Sherlock smile shyly, “Sorry I couldn’t manage that. Would a knighthood suit you instead?”

“Sir John Watson, yeah,” John licks his lips, retreating into the cocoon of humour, “Got a nice ring to it.”

Sherlock gazes away in pretentious contemplation, “Maybe Mycroft can swing that. He keeps a couple in the basement of that godawful townhouse.”

That makes both of them succumb to shared unseemly sniggers, relieved the worst has finally passed and John now has control over the story. They turn and look at each other, still giggling, but when their eyes meet their smiles slowly begin to fade, remembering John’s words from before.

“But seriously, Sherlock,” John is the first to sober up, holding Sherlock’s gaze, “It was months ago, and I’m completely over it. I promise.”

“Right,” Sherlock nods, looking down as if fighting the urge to say something as well. “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel inclined to inform you that nothing is going on between Irene and myself. She’s my boss and a very old family friend. That’s all.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes and John looks away at that very moment, “It’s okay. I don’t want to know...” he fists his hands in his pockets, “It shouldn’t be my business anyway.”

“Right, yes. Of course, it isn’t,” Sherlock scrambles to subdue the moment with filler words, “Professional relations are just that. Professional relations.”

John gulps without looking at Sherlock, “Right, of course.”

“We’re friends.”

“Right.”

“And we’ll stay friends.”

John gives him a tight smile, “Yeah.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, devoid of all hope or joy.

“I just want it to stop. I just want to leave... and never come back.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock’s office, where Craig from IT is still at work on Sherlock’s computer, the final one remaining. From his office, a wistful Sherlock watches John waiting at the copier, his hands fisted in his pockets, trying to figure out why his prints are not coming out.

John mistakes a glance at Sherlock’s office only to find Sherlock watching him, and flinches as if stung by a bee, making Sherlock dart his eyes away towards whatever Craig is doing to his computer.

“Okay, so I’ve got your zipped-up email backup file from H&H’s global server. My USB drive is still full of viruses, so I couldn’t use that to copy the file directly from your HR’s computer to yours. Sorry.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the camera.

“So, I’ve sent an email from Greg’s account to yours,” Craig hits a set of keys before prattling on. “Once I get the Outlook backup to your computer, you should be able to reaccess your original Citrix login email link and regain access to the global server and then my job here will be done. Sound cool?”

“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.”

Craig throws Sherlock a dirty look but mostly ignores his cutting jab, “Open your Outlook.”

They wait for their email to show up, but it doesn’t. Craig hits the refresh button a couple of times, and the email pops up, with the zipped-up backup file intact. A happy ending to a troublesome day. Except...

“Wait,” Sherlock peers at the sender line of the email, “This isn’t Greg’s email. This is the Holmes & Holmes global general announcement email address... See, HR-direct@holmesandholmes.co.uk. You just sent an email with confidential information about this branch to everyone in the company like an idiot.”

Craig peers at it too but doesn’t appear too bothered, “Oh. Overlooked that.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock glances at the camera, pieces clicking together in his head and forming the ominous picture. And, without warning, shoves Craig aside to sprint out of his office towards Greg’s desk with a steady mutter of “no, no, no”.

Even as the employees—Irene included—watch on in a mix of amusement and bewilderment as a feverish Sherlock launches himself onto Greg’s desktop, email notifications begin to ring in each computer.

“Nobody open that email!” Sherlock yells, before opening Greg’s Outlook to find the email and confirm the email address it was sent to. But of course, Sherlock’s impassioned yell only serves to spur the employees into opening the email even faster. An effervescence of murmurs begins to evolve, as Irene and Craig both make their way out of their respective rooms, puzzlement etched on their faces. Irene’s Blackberry rings the email notification, and she steals a glimpse of it, only to look back at Sherlock in exasperation.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson peers at her screen, “Are these... your emails?”

Meanwhile, Philip points to his screen, “Why do you have a list of top ten animals that look like me?” Philip turns to John, “_You_ sent him this?!”

Right opposite from Mrs Hudson, Henry scowls at his computer, “You recommended I be laid off last year?! I’ve been here longer than you!”

Across the office floor, not one person utters a word, not even Sherlock, except Henry who glares at Sherlock, pressing for answers, “You know I’ve got kids, right? My eldest just got into prep school, and... Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but shakes his head, too numb, too institutionalised by the emotional rollercoaster of the day to respond coherently. He gazes at the floor vacantly, rooted to the centre of the office: a damned man waiting for his sentence, any feeling squeezed out of the granite expression on his face.

“And this was during the holidays?” Henry turns to Irene, and the accusing gaze finally jolts her to her senses.

“Henry,” she clasps her hands, words addressing the disgruntled employee but her eyes never leaving Sherlock, “That decision has been long since revoked—”

“Yes, but what’s the guarantee you won’t let me go when you can’t scrape together two pennies for the branch the next time? And why should we even...” Henry points at Sherlock with a derisive scoff, “Unbelievable.”

With that, Henry rises from his desk and retreats to the restrooms, leaving the office entrenched in uncomfortable silence.

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene and Sherlock in the latter’s office. Sherlock is still buried in deep contemplation, while an exasperated Irene browses through her phone, playing catch-up for her subordinate.

“How did your emails even leak?” she finally utters, massaging her forehead, “Is this another of your... pranks?”

Sherlock looks up at her, a dangerous hollowness in his eyes which narrow at Irene’s suggestion.

“I’m assuming the IT guy typed ‘holmes’ into the sender address bar to find my email address and, since Greg must use the HR-Direct email quite often, clicked on the first suggestion without bothering to check further. Everyone gets emails sent on behalf of HR-Direct so...”

Irene lets out a tired sigh, “Goodness! Though I still can’t understand why Henry would be so upset that you’d once decided to let him go.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I believe he made his reasons quite clear.”

“Yes, but they all know you took a salary cut. You’re the reason Henry wasn’t laid off so why would he be so personal with...?”

Irene catches Sherlock’s gaze only for Sherlock’s eyes to dart away, too quick for normal. Realisation dawns on her, and she shakes her head in disappointment.

“Oh, Sherlock—”

“Shut up.”

She lets out a laugh that is as pitying as resigned, “No one knows you took a salary cut, do they?”

“So?”

Irene arches an eyebrow at the defensive monosyllabic question, her brows knitting together as she assesses Sherlock intensely as if mentally unspooling his brain, dissecting away and trying to catch and pin down his thoughts. Usually a worthy opponent of her scrutiny, Sherlock’s attempts at finding escape from her penetrating gaze by pretending to browse through his computer come across as borderline amateurish.

“If I did something like that for my subordinates,” Irene begins at last, careful but severe, “I’d shout it from the rooftops.”

Sherlock scoffs, “Speaking as your ‘subordinate’, my deepest gratitude for sparing me the horror.”

Irene lets out a snort at his comeback. “And here I thought you’d changed.”

“Oh?” Sherlock crosses his arms, mildly interested.

“Just saying. I remember when you brought in that infantile murder mystery game for the office back when you first started here,” Irene shakes her head, dejection weighing her tone low. “I shouted at you and you defended your actions, but now you’re just... sitting there, like a robot. Won’t even take credit for something they’d probably love you for...”

Irene trails off, frowning upon seeing Sherlock’s smirk tinged with indifference, as if everything she’s pointing out means nothing to him, “You’re wrong. I’m still the same.”

“Am I wrong? So that wasn’t you not defending yourself when Henry was shouting at you? And the times when one of your accountants refused to cooperate with you, and one of your direct reports called you a ‘junkie arsonist’? Was I wrong when—?”

“John admitted,” Sherlock presses his lips together, slightly smug as he interrupts her mid-tirade, “You were wrong. You said he wouldn’t.”

Irene looks thrown-off by the sudden change in topic but bounces back admirably.

“John... admitted what?”

Sherlock gives her a pointed look, and she exhales in realisation.

“Oh, right. So?”

“So... you were wrong, _boss._ You said he’d never admit—”

“No,” Irene clarifies, “ ‘So’ as in ‘so, what are you going to do about it now?’ ”

That question wipes the self-satisfied look off Sherlock’s face, replacing it with one of nonchalance. Irene waits for him to say something, anything, but when she’s blessed with just a shrug, she rolls her eyes, shaking her head with dismay.

“Why am I not surprised...? Anyway, I’ve been here for too long,” she collects her purse and her coat, “Got to get to Bowes Park before five, hand over the clients to Jim, explain the lay of the land to his eminent salespeople. This IT incident goes into your performance report, by the way.”

And before Sherlock can say he doesn’t care, she struts out of Sherlock’s office and out of H&H, shutting the door loud enough to startle the people outside the office.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, seated crosslegged on the floor and reading a computer hardware manual entirely unrelated to his job. There’s a knock on his door.

“Come in.”

The door swings open to reveal John. “Hey, it’s five-thirty. You coming?”

Sherlock risks a look outside. “Is Henry gone?”

“Yeah, Greg asked him to take the rest of the day off so he went home hours ago, I think,” John kneels next to Sherlock, “Is this...?”

“Yes, I’m done,” he claps the manual shut and springs to his feet. Having gained a newfound respect for confidentiality after the day’s events, he locks each file in his drawer before sprinting out to catch up with John as the latter collects his jacket.

As they make their way into the lift, camera zooms onto Sherlock’s face. There’s an eyelash on his cheek, big enough for John to reach out and brush away once again.

John notices. But this time, he does not reach out.


	19. Conflict Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conflict resolution session at H&H Ferndale turns into a petty shouting match, a medically-incorrect discussion about _The Notebook_ and gets everyone thinking about their internal conflicts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter is a little crackier than the rest of the fic. I broke my leg while doing some recon for my mother and typed this chapter on painkillers while jamming to some Money by D/R Period which makes me think weird stuff to soothe myself. My left leg is now the size of Mother Russia: big and red and swollen ("that's what she said!")
> 
> TW: mentions (and intentionally frivolous/medically-incorrect discussion) of Alzheimer's because of The Notebook.
> 
> If you wish to skip that part: 
> 
> Stop reading at: **Molly frowns, “Like Allie from The Notebook?”**
> 
> Resume at: **Camera cuts to the break room. A solitary Sherlock is seated at the farthest table, munching on his lunch and browsing through the newspaper**

Camera cuts to a conscientious John working at his desk: much more serious than we usually see him. John doesn’t work this hard. It’s not that John isn’t a hard worker, just... not at this job. His landline begins to ring, and John glances at the caller ID, letting out a silent groan before answering.

“Jim, hiya... Yeah, you too... No, I told you I’m not...” John shakes his head, donning the surliest smile known to man.

From behind John, we see Sherlock at his desk, trying and failing to keep his gaze from wandering towards John. In a whirlwind of decision, he springs from his chair and trots to Molly’s desk. John glances at Sherlock before turning away and lowering his voice further.

Molly flashes him a tired smile. “Hey, Sherlock—”

“Pretend you’re making small talk,” Sherlock cuts in before she can distract him with inane conversation. His gaze migrates to the clock behind her and stares as if shooting lasers into it were his life’s mission.

“But—”

“Shut up. Let me listen.”

Molly glances at the camera. “You said—”

“Shut up.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room.

“As of late, Sherlock has been coming to the reception desk. A lot. He comes to my desk and stares at something behind me and tells me to keep talking in low tones. I’m not the usual victim of his boredom; John is. But lately, Sherlock and John have been kind of avoiding each other. So anyway...”

She pulls out Sherlock’s work logs. “These are records of what Sherlock does in the office every day. I use my judgment to fill them ‘appropriately’ and fax them over to Mycroft at five pm.”

Thoroughly harassed, Molly holds up one page to the camera. Between mentions of Sherlock reading books on expeditions to the North Pole, there are seven mentions of ‘_Five-minute brainstorming sessions’_ in one day.

“Those staring sessions are the brainstorming sessions.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“A few days ago, Sherlock pointed out that my sales numbers had gone down because I was... otherwise occupied. So, just trying to get a jump up on my work. That’s all. Thought I should concentrate more on improving my bank balance than...” he hesitates, trying to come up with a better term for ‘slacking off with Sherlock’, “other things.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson fixing herself a cuppa in the kitchen. We see Sally Donovan enter and make a beeline for the refrigerator, her shoulders squared and jaws clenched. She pushes past Mrs Hudson almost deliberately and retrieves a yoghurt cup before closing the door with excessive force.

Recovering from the flinch, Mrs Hudson glares daggers into her back as she marches out of the kitchen.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room.

“She’s the reason I couldn’t keep John’s secret. So yes, I will slam as many doors in her face as I please.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg in the conference room: jacket surrendered onto a nearby chair, chin supported by the keel of his palm, lips downturned in polite misery. Camera pans to reveal the source: Mrs Hudson pacing and ranting away.

“... Always Miss High Horse! Always thinks she’s so perfect and ethical—”

“Uh, Mrs H,” Greg interrupts, setting his pen down on his foolscap notepad, “It would help if your complaint were specific to an incident in the workplace, not a general character assessment.”

“Oh, okay...” that calms Mrs Hudson down enough to sit back down and form another opening statement.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg outside the conference room, whispering despite the door closed behind him.

“I’ve been listening to her for forty-five minutes now, and it’s not even something I’m supposed to do. Technically, conflict resolution is Sherlock’s job,” he indicates to Sherlock’s office, “I’m just required to be present during the meeting to facilitate the redressal process. The first time I got him to sit down for it, he ran away five minutes in declaring he had no time for ‘the crushing tedium of boring people with their boring everyday grievances’.”

Greg lets out a tired sigh.

“Since then, Sherlock has refused to attend another on pain of death, plus he’s not really a ‘people person’, so conflict resolution falls upon me. But maybe, maybe... I can get Sherlock to sit in for this one, as a start? And once Sherlock gets into the groove, he can finally... take over? Is that wishful thinking?”

* * *

“Come in!”

The door to Sherlock’s office creaks open, revealing Greg in the doorway, a manila folder in his hand, “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, “go away.”

But Greg doesn’t oblige, shutting the door behind him and taking a seat nevertheless. “You’re in a good mood today.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, deciding to shun Greg like a five-year-old. Greg glances at the camera; this isn’t going as well as he thought. He watches Sherlock pretend to look for something on the internet and waits for a reaction. In the game of patience, Sherlock is incapable of being the one to say ‘checkmate’.

“I’m not going in there,” Sherlock declares at last when his patience runs thin. Greg suppresses his triumphant smirk.

“It’s not even my job, Sherlock. You’re the manager. You’re supposed to do this.”

“No, I’m supposed to _save_ people’s jobs.”

“This is part of it. Look, all you have to do is ask a few generic questions off the list and let me take over when they answer. I give you my blessing to sit there with Scotch and The Who playing in your earphones if you like,” Greg coaxes him out of his belligerent shell, “Come on. You owe me one, remember?”

Sherlock shoots him a dirty look before looking down at his lap. “Why bother? All the complaints are about me anyway.”

Greg frowns in puzzlement at Sherlock’s uncharacteristically small voice, “Why would you just assume that?”

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room. Now, Sherlock is another unwilling party to Mrs Hudson’s mid-morning rant on Sally Donovan. Greg, the epitome of misery loves company, checks his notes back and forth, alternating between forced smiles at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson.

“And this was two days ago,” Greg tries to break her momentum, “the fifteenth of January?”

“Accusing me of making pot brownies!” she keeps going on, without paying any attention to Greg’s attempts at fizzling the situation, “Always telling me to redo my spreadsheets. Always rejects my expense reports. Sherlock approves them. Is _that_ not enough for her—?”

“Okay!” Sherlock slams his palm down on the table with a loud bang, looking like he’s finally had enough, “You obviously have problems. Let’s call Sally in. Settle this mano a mano.”

Taken aback, Mrs Hudson goes very quiet, not thrilled with the idea of a confrontation. Her eyes dart from Sherlock to Greg in surprise as the latter dips his head in exasperation. He should’ve expected non-cooperation from Sherlock, but not to this extent.

“Uh, Sherlock...” Greg leans in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “Here’s how I usually handle this: all I do is listen. These things usually work themselves out—”

“Nope,” popping the ‘p’, Sherlock springs from his chair and throws the conference room door open, “Sally! Conference room, one minute. Or you’re fired!”

From his desk, Philip throws Sherlock a dirty look as Sally rolls her eyes and slams the budget books shut, “You can’t just say ‘you’re fired’ and expect people to comply.”

Sherlock smiles indulgently, “Anderson, go back to your work, or you’re fired!”

John glances at the camera, pressing his lips together in amusement. Sherlock meets his eye, but only for a second before they both turn away from each other, awkward.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee.

“Even though I’ve never watched _The Apprentice_, I’ve heard enough to believe that Sherlock is capable of giving Donald Trump a run for his money.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg outside the conference room, Sally and Mrs Hudson inside already. He really doesn’t want to go back in, but he has to. He can’t just leave them alone there, not with Sherlock’s razor-sharp tongue.

“Am I going to regret this?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

“Greg is going to regret this.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock, Greg, Sally and Mrs Hudson in the conference room, with Sherlock at the head of the table, Greg to his right, and Mrs Hudson and Sally facing opposite each other, jaws clenched and determined to avoid eye-contact. Sherlock looks ready to tear everyone a new one.

“Okay, according to Greg, there are six steps to conflict resolution,” Sherlock glances at Greg’s notepad, “Step one: ‘clarify what the disagreement is’. Mrs Hudson says you,” he indicates to Sally, “have been insulting her spreadsheets. I quite agree; I’ve seen some of your spreadsheets, and they’re terrible.”

Mrs Hudson looks down at her lap, “Really? I thought they were pretty. I use those little colour blocks...”

“Can I go?” Sally fixes Sherlock with an unamused look, “I have a lot of work to do—”

“No,” Sherlock puts up a restraining finger, “Your esteemed HR brought me here to resolve workplace disputes, so that’s what I’ll do today. Now, both sides must agree on what the disagreement is. To do this, we shall discuss your ‘unmet needs’,” he finishes with a dramatic flourish of his hand, earning exasperated looks from all over.

“Please stop talking about my ‘unmet needs’,” Sally grimaces.

“Speaking of which, Sally,” Sherlock continues, undaunted, “your need is a good spreadsheet, and Mrs Hudson, your need is to know how to make a good spreadsheet.”

“No,” Sally shakes her head, “that’s not...” she scowls at Sherlock before leaning forward to chide Mrs Hudson, “First you take my parking space, and now you’re going to waste my time with _this?”_

Mrs Hudson makes herself smaller, “I know you keep saying it’s your space, even though there’s no assigned parking, but I keep forgetting.”

Sherlock glances at the camera in bemusement. The disagreement has gone off on an unexpected tangent.

“Oh, really?” Sally crosses her arms defensively, “Like you always forget to do everything I ever ask you to do? That’s your excuse? That you forgot gossiping about what you forced me to...” she glances at Sherlock and lowers her voice to a menacing growl, “... _what you forced me to reveal that day?”_

Mrs Hudson looks genuinely bamboozled, “Reveal what?”

“By all means,” Sally lets out a scoff, “smoke more doobies and pretend it does wonders for your memory!”

Mrs Hudson gapes at her in outrage, but she holds it together to mutter a spiteful, “I don’t like you.”

The metaphorical tumbleweed rolls across the conference room, accompanied by cricket chirps for full effect. Greg buries his face in his palms and Sherlock, eyes darting from one plaintiff to other, seems dimly aware that he might’ve made things worse but he’s okay with it as long as Greg learns his lesson the slow, torturous way.

“So, the resolution is,” Sherlock drums his fingers on the table, “Sally, you take an hour and come up with the worst insults you can think of. Mrs Hudson, you take an hour and come up with the worst spreadsheets you can make and then, you both print them and look at it every day—”

“What—?!” Sally splutters. Mrs Hudson lets out a high-pitched chortle, just as Sally stares round at Sherlock in disbelief.

“Did you even listen—?”

Greg shakes his head, “Sherlock, that’s not...”

“And, and,” Sherlock overrides them, “that way, the next time you encounter a bad spreadsheet, or an insult, you will be prepared for it. Win-win.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone.

“These two women are inflexible. Sally will never change, and Mrs Hudson will need two lifetimes to learn Excel. Teaching an old dog new tricks, or the other to drop her standards, isn’t going to work. They need to appreciate what they’ve got.”

A beat passes, and Sherlock looks down at his lap as if trying to hide his face.

“Must be nice, being appreciated.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to the conference room. Sally shakes her head in disbelief.

“How about she learns how to do her job properly?”

“How about she stops being such a little miss perfect?” Mrs Hudson retorts. 

Sherlock’s upper lip curls in annoyance, “It’s either this or you two exchange jobs for two weeks. Sally can do supplier relations, and Mrs Hudson can do Accounting. Do you want that?”

Sally rolls her eyes, “That’s ridiculous!”

“Well, your problems are ridiculous,” Sherlock shrugs, rising from his chair and looking down at both defendants, “hence the solutions too. You have one hour. Now, get out!”

“But—”

“Next!” Sherlock declares, turning to Greg, “See how it’s done? It took me less than ten minutes to sort the issue, and I didn’t even have to listen to their witless babbling.”

With an audible sigh, Greg notes something down before processing Sherlock’s statement in its entirety, “Wait, what do you mean ‘next’?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg at his desk, retrieving a folder full of F26-A complaint forms.

“Either Sherlock is invigorated by the spirit of problem-solving, or he just wants to punish me,” he shakes his head in dismay as he carries the Bankers box full of complaints towards the conference room.

“One time I took Alyssa, my daughter, for swimming lessons. She didn’t want to, but I insisted she go... The instructor was cute, and I thought we were hitting it off. End of day, Alyssa got into a fight with some kid, and I got pushed into the pool instead. Never got a date with that instructor... So yes, that day, I learned that forcing children to do what’s right for them against their will never works. Why do you ask?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office.

“Yes, I’ve had conflicts with people. Once, in a moment of distraction, I made an observation on Philip and Sally wearing the same men’s deodorant. Next day, I found someone had broken the handle of the coffee mug John had gifted me for Christmas. I tried comparing fingerprints left on the mug to the prints on Philip’s monitor screen, but apparently, two pieces of sellotape with slightly similar swirly smears isn’t considered enough evidence.”

He takes a sip from the same coffee mug. The handle is crooked, fixed together by sellotape.

* * *

Camera cuts to all employees grumbling in the conference room. Sally and Mrs Hudson are seated at the opposite spectrum of the employees, both muttering indignantly. Greg has loosened his tie down to his chest: the universal symbol of a man who’s given up hope. Sherlock is sifting through all the complaint forms, upper lip curling with disgust.

“This is from Henry. He says ‘_Molly talks too much’_. Join the club... And this is from Billy, who believes John and Philip are BCC’ing me in emails that request him for customer feedback,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Fear not, Billy. I delete all emails that start with ‘Hi’ or come from Philip.”

“You’re supposed to read them!” Philip hisses and John shrugs in agreement.

“Can I go, dear?” Mrs Hudson raises a timid hand in the air, “I have a lunchtime doctor’s appointment.”

“No, because this complaint is from you, Mrs Hudson: ‘_Greg is not accepting my Facebook friendship request’._ You all are utterly ridiculous!” Sherlock slams the forms on the conference table with a sharp _smack_, “Whining and whinging and complaining all the time when someone tries to get something done!”

Greg peers round at Mrs Hudson in confusion, “Mrs H, I-I’m not on Facebook.”

“Really?” Mrs Hudson pouts in self-doubt, “Then who have I been talking to?”

“If you’ve been talking already, how—?”

“Stop it!” Sherlock drills his most heinous glare into Greg, and they both back down, “Billy, Sally says you smell like cat piss... Sally, that’s not urine; that’s the odour of methamphetamine.”

Sally recoils in her chair as grumbling from the employees ratchets up, “What—?”

“Also, Billy, you’ve been accused of making sleazy gay jokes to John that made him uncomfortable,” Sherlock glances at John whose jaws are clenched, back stiff and eyes avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. “Solution: John, you will now make sleazy gay jokes to Billy that make him uncomfortable.”

John gives the camera an unamused look.

* * *

Camera cuts to John outside the conference room, door locked behind him and employees muttering inside.

“Oh, I’m trying to stay away from all this nonsense. I got caught in the crossfire last time when they thought Sherlock had to lay someone off, and it was ugly.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip outside the conference room, door locked behind him and employees muttering inside.

“I’m glad this is being done, but all those people in there are suckers! Sherlock is not going to do a bloody thing about those disputes. Which is why I send my grievances directly to the permanent misbehaviour file at corporate.”

Philip’s phone begins to ring at his desk.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have sales to make.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg at his desk. The entire office floor is empty except for Philip, who’s returned to working at his desk. Rest of the employees are still cooped up inside the conference room.

“Permanent misbehaviour file at corporate...?” He emits a bewildered chuckle, “Oh, right. No, that’s... Every Friday at four o’clock, Philip sits down with me to narrate his weekly list of complaints against Sherlock and John’s pranks. I tell him that they go over Sherlock’s head to a special file at corporate.”

He points to the conference room.

“Everything that I gave away to Sherlock today is part of the special file at corporate.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and the rest of the employees in the conference room.

“And this...” Sherlock discovers a second, smaller folder inside the main one, “Greg, there’s a whole bunch of complaints labelled ‘redacted’.”

“Yeah, it just means whoever complained came to me later and withdrew it,” Greg slumps back into his chair, his protective shell, “so I took their name off.”

Sherlock lets out an annoyed hiss, “Alright. Once more unto the breach... Here’s another about Mrs Hudson: _‘Martha doesn’t speak in full sentences’_... this is redacted. This is female handwriting, obviously. Who else could it be?”

Mrs Hudson gapes at Sherlock in reproach, “That’s ridiculous!”

“And another from you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock waves another chit of paper, _“‘Why aren’t we allowed to use at our desks? It improves.’”_

“See?” Sally quips without even looking up, “Incomplete sentences. This is what I’m referring to.”

Mrs Hudson scowls at Sally. _“You_ complained about me?!”

Sally shrugs, “Well, seeing as you did too, I’d call us even.”

Greg rolls his eyes in exasperation, “Sherlock, there’s a reason they’re labelled ‘redacted’. The complainant did not want it on the record anymore.”

“Well,” Sherlock crumples up the paper and throws it into the bin with pinpoint accuracy, “too late for that now, don’t you think?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally outside the conference room, door locked behind her.

“Martha once sent me an email, marked urgent, containing the sentence, ‘Do you know because globes?’ It was a Friday afternoon, and she’d left by the time I read and replied with, ‘Do I know what because globes?’ That question bothered me for the entire Easter weekend. On Monday, I received the response, ‘nevermind now’ and a few seconds after that, ‘snow’... I found out what she meant later, so I redacted it.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock and the rest of the employees in the conference room. Mrs Hudson stands up in her chair, drained by the events of the morning and, before Sherlock can say anything, she hijacks the floor and the confused attention of the employees.

“Okay, fine. I misplace things; I forget to file expense reports, I skip words in my emails. I forget people’s names and faces. I’ll try better in the future. Doesn’t anyone else get that? Sherlock always forgets lunch and steals the food I keep in the refrigerator, don’t you, dear?”

“I delete,” Sherlock corrects, “My mind is simply too valuable to store detritus.”

Molly frowns, “Like Allie from _The Notebook?”_

Sherlock squints at Molly. “Whose notebook?”

Molly gives the camera a pointed look. “Not you... nothing.”

“No, no,” Mrs Hudson turns around to frown at Molly, “That movie is about Alzheimer’s. I just... forget one or two little things.”

“Alzheimer’s starts with little things,” Sherlock suggests in a voice as deadpan as Steven Wright’s.

“It’s not Alzheimer’s, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson lets out an indignant huff.

“How do you know?” Molly prods further, pressing her lips together to keep herself from laughing, “Have they tested you for it?”

“Yes, I went to a doctor and said, ‘Sometimes I forget Sally’s parking space rights so I’d like to go into one of those huge magnet tunnels and be tested for Alzheimer’s please’.”

“MRI,” John corrects, as Molly bursts out snickering at the absurdity of the discussion.

“Sorry?”

“Magnetic Resonance Imaging, not ‘huge magnet tunnels’.”

Mrs Hudson shakes her head and turns back to Sherlock when she sees the discussion has gone entirely off the point she was trying to make, “Can I go then?”

Sherlock frowns, “Where?”

“To my doctor’s appointment. I told you earlier.”

Sherlock’s frown grows darker. “What’s it even for?”

“You’re not allowed to ask that, Sherlock,” Greg advises, “Certainly not in a group meeting.”

“Piss off, Greg! It’s the third time she’s had a doctor’s appointment this month,” Sherlock turns back to her, quick-fire questions galore, “Are you dying? Should we start looking for a replacement supplier relations rep? You didn’t drink the tea from the blue flask, did you?”

Mrs Hudson starts to hobble out from between the tightly-packed chairs of the conference room, “Nice to know you’ve been keeping count, dear.”

“It might be Alzheimer’s,” Billy warns, copying Sherlock’s deadpan delivery as Mrs Hudson shuts the conference room door behind her, “Oh wait, it’s lunch already.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the break room. A solitary Sherlock is seated at the farthest table, munching on his lunch and browsing through the newspaper. There’s an empty chair next to him as if he’s saving a seat for someone.

We see John approach the break room and come to a halt upon spotting Sherlock seated at their usual table. He squeezes his lunchbox, biting his lip in indecision before doing an about-turn out of there back to his desk. For a second, he glances from his chair to his lunch, as if contemplating eating while working, but the idea makes him visibly cringe.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the emergency stairwell, crouched over his meagre lunch. Ears perking up, he turns around in alarm and heaves a disgruntled sigh when he spots the camera before we can hightail it out of there.

“No, I didn’t...” he shakes his head in a manner of explanation, “It’s not what it looks like.”

We take in the entire scene to see what it looks like: John, the smallest we’ve ever seen him, knees tucked into chest, drab lunchbox balanced on them precariously and only his mobile phone for company.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg eating lunch at his desk, instead of sitting with Mrs Hudson as usual.

“Mrs H didn’t want to sit with me today; she’s eating in her car. So, Molly has gone to ‘check if she’s is okay’, which can be translated as, “I’m going to tell Mrs H everything Sally said so you might all want to put on safety goggles.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Billy in the break room.

“Molly and Mrs H went out to Subway and got themselves sandwiches, which they’re now eating at their desks. It would have been polite to ask if anyone else wanted anything from Subway. I considered going out to Subway too and loudly asking if anyone wants anything to make a point, but I’m not leaving in case I miss anything so it’s a KitKat for lunch...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally and Philip in the break room, the last ones to get their lunch breaks. Sally rests a weary forehead against the keel of her palm, commiserating,

“I’ve had the worst week here,” she shakes her head, miserable lips downturned. Her lunch lies abandoned as if she’s lost all appetite, “I have to redo months of work by myself because of the virus thing, and I had to park near the bushes again! Martha is just the worst...”

Philip extends a tentative arm towards her shoulder, pressing and massaging when she doesn’t say anything. “She’s okay, monkey.”

That earns him an instant glare, “Don’t take her side!”

Philip leans away a bit in self-preservation but doesn’t remove his arm, “What does Brandon think about everything?”

“I don’t know,” she scoots closer to him, “I try not to bother him about this kind of stuff.”

“You mean your thoughts and feelings?”

“Yeah,” Sally exhales a breath and Philip slips his hand into hers, a whisper of a caress that lingers and lures and traps until they find each other stealing a hurried kiss. And another. And another before tearing apart. Sally realises what she’s doing and jerks backwards violently, wheezing and spluttering and wiping her mouth, eradicating all evidence. Her chair gives a metallic screech underneath her, a wakeup call.

“Philip!”

“Sal—”

“No!” She scrambles to her feet, desperate for distance, her half-eaten lunch forgotten, “No. Not another word.”

“I can’t do the friend thing!” He half-pleads, “It’s not my fault!”

She puts a restricting hand up, still trying to gather her thoughts. Panting, she pulls at her sleeves as if trying to cover herself from Philip’s gaze. Taking a lungful of breath, she grits her teeth, shooting him the strongest glower she can muster.

“I meant what I said. I’ll file a complaint against you to Greg.”

And before Philip can respond, or say anything to change her mind, Sally grabs her lunch and marches out of the break room.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room, arms crossed and jaws clenched.

“I’m fine; thank you for asking... No, I’m not going to HR for... this,” she bites her bottom lip, far too uncertain than she was in the break room in front of Philip, “I’m just... I-I can sort this by myself. I don’t need... help or whatever.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk, working through the post-lunch slump, highlighting amounts on balance sheets. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Sherlock finishing his umpteenth trip from the kitchen to the office and scrambles to grab his handset, desperate to avoid any interaction.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John’s deliberate flurry of action, and he swerves the other way in resignation, returning to the conference room for the resumption of one-on-one conflict resolution with Greg. We follow Sherlock into the conference room as he lets out a tired sigh before plopping down on the nearest chair.

“How many more of these you got?”

Greg heaves the Bankers box full of Philip’s complaints onto the conference room table, “It’s all Philip’s.”

Sherlock’s mood brightens up considerably, “Well, this will be entertaining.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk. Philip strolls in and slumps into his chair with his afternoon coffee. John is on the phone: red-faced, head bowed, expression of deepest contrition at two-thirty in the afternoon, almost as if he’s being scolded. He rubs his face with a tired palm and nods in rhythm.

“Yes, Mr Denholm... Absolutely… Yes, I’ll most certainly do that... thank you for your...” he glances at the camera and gulps, “yeah, I’ll get him for you... Hold, please.”

He rests the handset down on the desk and buries his face in his palms, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. Philip glances at John first, and then the camera in curiosity but returns to his work when he infers no satisfactory explanation.

John raises a weary head a second later. “Philip, you doing something important?”

“Always am, John.”

“Do you want to be my superior?”

“I _am _your superior.”

That brightens John’s mood a little. “That’s the spirit,” he covers the handset with his hand and leans in towards Philip, “I have a client on the line; would you like to tell him you’re my manager?”

Philip does a quick once-over of John: the red face, the dishevelled hair, the slouched shoulders, and lets out a vacant chuckle, “Did you shout at one of your clients once again?”

John glances at the camera, his face starting to turn red with regret once again but resolves into one of determination. Now is not the time for weakness; if he doesn’t get a manager who can speak for him on his side, he could very well lose his client.

“Please, Philip?”

“No way. Go ask your boyfriend.”

John clenches his fist; he’s very close to a second shouting match, this time with his colleague. “Sherlock is not my... actually, you know what... Sherlock is the one who asked me to let you take over the manager role for the duration of this call.”

Philip frowns. “You’re bluffing.”

“Completely serious. That’s how Sherlock will groom his successor; because he thinks you’re... a very good,” John winces as if even the thought of coaxing Philip with false flattery is causing him acute physical pain, “very... intelligent... I can’t do this. Please, Philip, my client is pissed and, just... please help me out here, mate. I’d do the same for you.”

Philip narrows his eyes at the last line, the promise that John would do the same for him, and gives him a brief nod. John heaves a relieved sigh and provides Philip with his landline and the client information, “Name’s Charles Denholm... very formal, so he prefers Mr Denholm. Office administrator of KB Securities...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Philip shoves him away, absorbing the client information, “got it.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room.

“Why did I have Philip pretend to be my manager...? I don’t know. Sherlock is busy, and I didn’t want to...” he hesitates, “bother him with all this stupid stuff so...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Philip desk clump. Philip seems to be doing splendidly with John’s client.

“Yes, Mr Denholm... I agree, very unprofessional...”

John frowns at the camera. Philip hasn’t kept him on speakerphone, so there’s no way for John to deduce what is being said in the conversation.

“Yes, definitely, Mr Denholm, I think I have a solution that will suit you the best. As the branch manager, I’d like to recommend you to consider changing your H&H sales representative. Philip Anderson, I think, would be a great fit for you...”

John grits his teeth at the camera. Why did he even expect help from Philip?

“He is mild-mannered, courteous, professional and works tirelessly, even through holidays—”

But all of Philip’s self-directed phrase comes to a resounding halt as John grabs the handset and bangs it down onto the landline, startling Philip out of his skin.

“What the fuck, Philip?!”

“Saving the client from you, and you just gutted him!” He brandishes an accusing hand over John’s long-suffering landline.

“You were stealing him,” John seethes through clenched teeth, terrible figure towering over Philip who quails like a kitchen mouse ready to risk death over a small piece of cheese, “You son of a—”

“Yeah, better than a salesman who shouts obscenities at them!”

“Oh yeah?” John smiles humourlessly, “At least I don’t just shrug and say ‘not my fault’ during our weekly progress meetings!”

“That was one time!”

“Try twenty times!”

Philip’s mouth curls in indignation, and he springs out of his chair to dart towards the conference room. Throwing the door open to declare his presence, he marches to Greg with purpose.

“I have another grievance against John for the permanent misbehaviour file at corporate! Now!”

But before Greg or Sherlock can react to the thunderous exclamation, Philip spots the heavy-duty box marked ‘Philip’ in felt-tip and staggers backwards, “Is that...?”

He lunges for the box before Sherlock can push it away, and begins to rummage through it maniacally, “Ah... agh... grr... Ahh! No, no!” He heaves a load of F26-A complaint forms and smacks them on the conference table in agitation.

“Months and months of malfeasance unreported!” Philip roars, veins standing out like whipcord on his neck and forehead, “You told me you were sending these to corporate! This is too much! I can’t work here anymore!”

“Okay, okay,” Greg pushes him backwards gently, coaxing him away from trying to tear at Sherlock who looks at him wide-eyed, torn between shock and amusement, “Calm down, Philip—”

“No!” Philip roars, “Absolutely not. Human resources!” he sneers, “More like corporate stooge!”

“Okay, that’s it!” Greg pushes past a hysterical Philip and stomps his way to the conference room door, “John?”

John turns around, not at the least surprised by the summons, begins to get up before Greg even asks him. For the first time since the day started, John lets his gaze meet that of Sherlock’s almost bashful one before popping his knuckles and his neck joint in preparation for the ultimate smackdown.

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room, this time Greg at the head of the table, Sherlock and John on one side of the table, shoulder to shoulder, against a lonesome Philip, all fight squeezed out of him.

“Goodness, there are so many here I don’t even remember... Okay, Philip, so in your own words,” Greg begins to read from one complaint form after another, _“‘__Philip had kept a sandwich and a KitKat in the fridge, but when he opened it at lunchtime, it was empty. It was John Watson because he told Philip he should go to lunch early because he deserved a break, which is what they say in the KitKat advert’,”_ Greg peers up at Philip, “I forgot: why’d you make me write all this in third person?”

Philip clenches his jaws, glaring at his opponents as John presses his lips together to repress his laughter. Sherlock, on the other hand, does a far more admirable job of covering his glee.

“And this,” Greg turns over another form, “_‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson hummed the same high pitched note and tried to get Philip to make an appointment with an ENT doctor, inventing a disease called ‘Pretendonitis’_.”

That makes John burst out laughing along despite Greg’s stern looks. Sherlock steals a glimpse of John and lets himself break into a shy smile.

“‘_Every time Philip tried to open or close a program, [his computer played the entire intro to ‘Bob the Builder’ for two minutes’.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376214/chapters/65158744#chapter_19_endnotes)”_

This time, Sherlock nearly laughs into John’s shoulder, trying to restrain himself from bursting out, but John doesn’t care; his chortles run wild and free and joyous. But Philip still doesn’t budge; nostrils flaring, figure taut and expression unamused as he calmly waits for Judgment Day.

Greg turns another form over. “‘_This morning, Philip knocked himself in the head with the phone’_,” he frowns in confusion before looking to Philip for clarification.

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock in the latter’s office.

“That took a while,” Sherlock explains, oblivious to John watching him with resigned fondness, “We had to put more and more coins into Philip’s handset till he got used to the weight, and then John just... took them all out.”

“Good times,” John smirks up at him. Sherlock dips his head in embarrassed pleasure.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg, Philip, John and Sherlock in the conference room.

“_‘Sherlock Holmes brought in doughnuts for Philip’s birthday’_...” Greg frowns, “That doesn’t sound bad—”

“Just read,” Sherlock snickers, making John succumb into giggles once again. Greg lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“... ‘_Sherlock Holmes brought in doughnuts for Philip’s birthday. Philip ate through four before...’_,” Greg squints to read, unsure if he’s misinterpreting, “_‘before finding a dead cricket in the box’,” _Greg shakes his head, wincing, “Christ!”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Sherlock in the latter’s office.

“I found them in a bin,” Sherlock chuckles, “and left them on Philip’s desk. When he asked who brought those doughnuts in, John told him the girl from the bakery downstairs had brought them in because they had too many.”

John shakes his head, still trying to fight giggles off, “Together, we watched him eat four, commenting between mouthfuls that they were stale.”

Sherlock turns to John in unbridled delight, “He’d have eaten them all had he not found that...” he subsides into watery giggles again.

John lets out a final, choked snicker before his grin starts to fade.

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg, Philip, John and Sherlock in the conference room. Greg is halfway through the complaints.

“_‘John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have interchanged the keys on Philip’s keyboard, resulting in waste of company time and money’. _... _‘John Watson and Sherlock Holmes replaced two boxes of Philip’s business cards and changed the title from Senior Sales Representative to Darth Vader. It is not clear when they swapped them, so it is unsure how many Philip has already given away to clients’_...”

Philip just stares at them, dead-eyed, utterly devoid of any reaction unlike his usual self, and John’s chuckles begin to dry up even as Sherlock keeps snickering beside him. 

* * *

Camera cuts to John, this time alone, outside the conference room with the door closed behind him. His joyful mood is gone, a dark, pensive look gathering clouds over his head.

“You know, these don’t sound that funny one after another,” he looks down at his lap in contemplation, “But he does deserve it, though...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg, Philip, John and Sherlock in the conference room. Greg is still reading from the pile of Philip’s accusations.

“‘_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are circulating a memo titled ‘Philip’s Fifty-Seven Whines in Eight Hours’._..”

* * *

Camera cuts to John outside the closed-doors conference room, shaking his head. This is as accurate a progress report as he’ll ever receive in life.

“One day, Philip was whining about the stickiness of sellotape, and I asked him if he ever stopped whining and he said he never whined; he was the very model of tolerance. So, Sherlock and I began keeping a record of every time Philip whined that day...” John blinks after a beat, shoulders dropping, “And that’s how I spent my entire day that day.”

John gulps, pursing his lips. He tries one last chuckle, but it evaporates soon, sounding hollow even to himself.

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg, Philip, John and Sherlock in the conference room. Greg has finally stopped reading the master list of their pranks and simply shakes his head in disappointment.

“What am I even supposed to...?” Greg attempts, but gives up halfway, “Why would you two even play all these... ridiculous, infantile pranks? I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he begins wrapping up the allegations, “but I’m going to have to send these to Irene because there’s nothing I can do about this.”

Even as Sherlock emits an irreverent snort at the idea, Philip straightens in his chair. His moment is finally here, and he puffs up his chest like a first-time litigator at small claims court. John crosses his arms over his chest, one final attempt at self-justification.

“I have a grievance too.”

Greg flicks a weary wrist, too tired to give even verbal permission.

“Apparently,” John straightens in his chair, “after receiving five complaints, an external mediator must be brought in. This never happened, and I feel very sad about it.”

Sherlock lets out a snicker, elbowing John in the arm but Greg does not look amused.

“Stop it,” Greg warns, “This is a problematic trend with you, John. If there’s something you wish to say, state it clearly instead of hiding behind jokes,” he glares both Sherlock and John down, “Both of you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, oblivious to the final vestiges of humour wilting away from John’s face.

“This is ridiculous! Now, are you going to read more of those complaints? Because if you’re not, I’m out of here.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg outside the conference room, dark eyebags burdening his face.

“Technically, I’m a certified counsellor; it’s part of H&H’s HR staff requirements, so yes, I’m qualified to offer professional opinions on mental health and suchlike... What? Didn’t expect that from poor ol’ me, did ya?”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg, Philip, John and Sherlock in the conference room. John has completely tuned out of the proceedings.

“I’m serious, Sherlock!” Greg snaps, “And don’t think I don’t understand why you two target Philp. Pranking someone is no way to take out your frustrations.”

“Philip started it!” Sherlock retorts, flapping his arms like a stroppy teenager,

“Alright,” Greg interjects, “Philip, stop reacting to Sherlock and John; it only encourages them. Sherlock and John, stop this nonsense. You two aren’t exactly the world’s greatest office-workers either.”

“Exactly,” Philip sneers, then frowns.

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock scoffs, wrestling the Bankers box out of Greg’s grip and diving into it to find the perfect complaint to set the record straight. Chits and forms go flying in the air as Sherlock ransacks the box until he finds a form that makes him arch his eyebrows so high they run the risk of disappearing into the fringe of curls on his forehead.

“Moron. Of all the grievances you make, you redact this one?”

He throws the form with a dry chuckle in Philip’s direction before delving back into the box. Philip frowns in bewilderment and snatches it to examine it. It contains a single diagonal cross, with the name of the complainant blacked out and the simplistic grievance description of:_ “Don’t sleep with your boss”. _With Sherlock’s name underneath it. John notices the form and his eyes go rabbit-wide.

“I didn’t make this one,” Philip tosses it away like yesterday’s chowder. Sherlock glares at him for a moment, but it takes him one second of re-examination to realise that Philip is telling the truth. Scowling, Sherlock takes another look at the form.

“Must be Sally, then; it’s from a couple of days ago,” Sherlock muses, examining the form, and beside him, John’s face loses colour tint-by-tint as every second passes and Sherlock begins to scrutinise the paper with increasing intensity.

“Sherlock...” John utters; two tetchy syllables that very well precede the damndest words John would ever say to him.

“Not Sally,” Sherlock mutters after another moment, “Molly?”

“Sherlock...”

“Shut up, John, let me—”

“It was me,” John interjects before Sherlock can get his foot through the door, “I’m the one who complained about you.”

Sherlock’s spine goes rigid upon hearing the statement, stung by betrayal as sudden and severe and overwhelming as lightning. Greg takes a peep into the complaint form and lets out a stilted, noisy “Oh” as John bows his head low, words falling and tumbling over themselves to explain the infraction.

“I… I didn’t know that Greg would write it down,” John admits, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “I was just venting.”

“To your HR representative,” Greg clarifies, but he goes unacknowledged.

“It was one day,” John fixes his gaze onto Sherlock’s, trying to convey his sincerity, “and I took it right back...”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock places the form facedown on the table with a harrumph and hightails out of the conference room before John can get another word in.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, still trying to process what happened in the conference room.

“It doesn’t make logical sense... I’ve been transparent with John. Then, why would he...?”

* * *

Camera cuts to the conference room. Only John and a self-satisfied Philip remain inside after all the drama. Philip glances up at John, who’s still pacing up and down the conference room as if suppressing every instinct to run after Sherlock.

“Justice has been done,” Philip leans back in his chair, happy as a lark. John throws him a dirty scowl.

“Why don’t you take a transfer if you’re so bloody unhappy here?”

“Me? Why don’t _you_ take your own advice for once?”

John opens his mouth to retort, but keeps mum, fisting his hands in his pockets halfheartedly.

“Maybe we should both take a transfer,” John suggests at last with a weak chuckle, only to shake his head in exasperation. What is he even saying?

Philip lets out a scoff, “I have a girlfriend.”

“Sure you do, Philip...” John rolls his eyes, glancing out the conference room windows towards the parking lot. Camera follows his line of sight to Sherlock’s company car: the sleek, red convertible. Underneath the car lies a daisy, crushed out of existence for the simple crime of hoping to grow out of the dull, grey concrete.

* * *

“Mr Watson? Irene’s ready for you.”

John, in his most flattering navy blue suit, gives the receptionist at the H&H corporate branch an acknowledging nod, mouthing ‘one minute’. He retrieves his phone from his trouser-pocket, fiddling with the keypad as if it could aid his decision-making. Finally, he takes a deep breath and presses his lips together in a thin, decisive line and dials a number.

“Hey, Molly... Yeah, could you tell Sherlock I’ll reach the office after eleven o’clock...? Yeah, I have to run a few emergency chores and, uh... tell him I’ve redirected all calls to my mobile so that I won’t be missing anything...” he chuckles conversationally, “yeah, you too... Thanks.”

As John clicks his phone shut, he glances up at the camera and gulps, the face of a man who’s about to dive off a cliff as his last escape. Without another look at the camera that might weaken his resolve, he marches into the corporate office, walking in till he encounters a glass door with the label of ‘Irene Adler. General Manager, Sales Department’. He lets out a breath to gather his courage and knocks on the door.

“Yeah?”

John pokes his head in to see Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty ready for him. Irene’s face is as inscrutable as ever, but Jim’s bubbly excitement knows no bounds.

“Morning, Irene,” John nods tetchily, “Morning, Jim.”

“John, come in,” Irene smiles politely, “Have a seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I claim credit for none of these awful, hilarious pranks (except maybe the Bob the Builder one). They come from the treasure trove that is Jim Halpert's mind in The Office (US), and from David Thorne's Ten Formal Complaints.


	20. Awards Night: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft enlists Greg’s help in emceeing the annual company-wide Awards Night at Holmes & Holmes. John contemplates the best way to communicate his departure to Sherlock.

Camera cuts to Greg at his desk. It’s nearly three o’clock, but we already see him packing up for the day: shutting down his computer, closing off files and binders and turning keys in desk drawers.

“Every year, on the last Friday of January, we have the employee recognition event at Holmes & Holmes, colloquially known as Awards Night,” he drones away without looking at the camera. “This year, we’re going to have the event at some riverside Marriott near the Westminster bridge.”

He finished packing and wraps a scarf around his neck.

“Usually, the admin people over at corporate are in charge of organising this event but, since the company has let go several of them, they’ve called the next best thing: the HRs,” he points two thumbs at himself with a disparaging smile.

* * *

Camera cuts to John at his desk, staring blankly at an open file. From behind him, we see Sherlock emerge from his office, alternating between cautious glances at the camera and the back of John’s head. For a moment, Sherlock almost muses turning back and shutting himself away inside his office, but when he sees John just sitting at his desk, unmoving, unthinking, his eyes flit to the camera in suspicion before announcing his presence.

“Hey.”

John breaks out of his reverie and whips his head back, “Oh, hi.”

Sherlock approaches and snatches more glances of John’s desk, “Up to something interesting?”

“I don’t know; I think I was...” John licks his lips deliberately as his eyes flicker over Sherlock’s figure leaning against John’s desk almost invitingly, “just staring at my desk.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards in a smirk, “Really? Do you want to get back to that? I could go. I should go.”

“Yeah, do you mind leaving?” John maintains a far more admirable deadpan face, “I’d like to get back to staring at my desk. It’s important and requires all of my concentration.”

Sherlock taps John’s desk with his knuckles before getting up, “Uh-huh.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, pressing his lips to the point of whiteness to keep himself from smiling.

“John is just great. We hit a bit of a rough patch but all that is past us now. I’m glad I nominated him for this pointless awards thing that’s going to happen tonight; it got us talking again...”

Sherlock assumes an expression so ruminative one could almost mistake it for genuine.

“Did I nominate John for an award so that he would smooth things over with me...? Yes. But to avoid suspicion, I nominated Henry too, because he nearly got laid off and an award makes us even. Branch managers have that power and what is power if not used for personal reasons?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, his eyes sunken as if he hasn’t slept in days.

“Why did I talk to Irene about transferring? Well, you know... You only have a future in a place where you feel useful, and... I don’t. Not anymore.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room, expression unusually imperturbable.

“This is the first time I’m not getting any award, and I know the reason very well,” he glances in the direction of Sherlock’s office, “But you know what? It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I’m the greatest salesman there ever was, and the evidence isn’t going to be a paltry award; it will be Sally returning to me tonight. If I can sell paper products to trees, which I have—DEFRA, basically the department that handles forests, is one of my many clients—I can sell myself to Sally. And you can go ahead and tell her that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sally in the conference room, brows knitted in a perplexed frown.

“Philip said what?!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Henry fixing himself a 4 pm tea. Balancing both the tea mugs, he shuffles his feet towards Mrs Hudson working on her sudoku on the table and sets them down.

“Here you go, Mr H. Nice, hot cuppa for you.”

“Oh, thanks love,” Mrs Hudson beams gratefully, taking a sip, “And congratulations, by the way.”

Henry emits a pleased grunt. “I was surprised to be nominated too. It’s nice to walk up to the stage for once. Means a lot.”

“Oh, no, dear, you had it a long time coming.”

* * *

Camera cuts to the reception. We see Irene Adler, in her usual business suit and beige blouse, stride in through the H&H main entrance. Molly looks up at once and opens her mouth in greeting, glancing at the clock in confusion. It’s four o’clock and Awards Night is supposed to start in less than two hours.

“Oh, hello, Irene...”

Irene flashes her a polite smile in a manner of greeting, casting a cursory gaze over the rest of the workplace as if ensuring everybody is still present at their desks and makes her way straight into Sherlock’s office without even bothering to knock. She closes the doors on the cameras’ face, but we keep filming through the blinds. The loud _bang_ forces everybody’s attention, including John’s, who glances at the camera, his frown apprehensive.

Sherlock, in his office, dons a patronising smile, “And people reckon I don’t have manners.”

Irene doesn’t take a seat, nor does she bother to reply to his snide remark. She tosses her coat onto a chair and digs into her handbag, producing a file. Grabs a stray pen from Sherlock’s desk and begins to tick and make signatures. Sherlock assesses her from top to bottom, trying to figure out what’s got her knickers in a twist.

She gets to the last page and then tosses the document in front of Sherlock, offering him the pen, “Sign next to my name.”

Frowning in bewilderment, Sherlock examines the documents gently. With each page, his frown dissipates and so does the colour in his face. With quiet determination, he closes the file and steeples his fingers beneath his chin.

“Absolutely not.”

Irene crosses her arms, “It’s over, Sherlock. You tried; it didn’t work.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw, deep loathing radiating off of him. “No.”

“I told you,” she shrugs, “you were simply delaying the inevitable.”

“Henry thinks he’s supposed to be getting an award tonight,” Sherlock seethes, “Has anyone ever told you you have the worst timing ever?”

With that, he shoves the files in his desk drawer as if locking them away will stop the layoff freight train. Irene emits a scoff and Sherlock peers at her, hunting for answers: why isn’t this affecting her as much as him? And why is this affecting him? And what can he do to make this not affect him?

“I seem to recall making a similar observation about you,” Irene waves a dismissive hand, “Now, let’s go into the conference room. It’s four-fifteen, and a Friday. At least we’ll be doing Henry the favour of not having to do the walk of shame in front of his colleagues.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, seething.

“That scheming, conniving little minx! She came in at four-fifteen without telling me she was coming or why she was coming... She blindsided me so that I’d be utterly unprepared,” Sherlock lets out an irritated grunt, “She’s good.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Sherlock’s office. His eyes dash over the things in his office, trying to find the final weak link in Irene’s chain of action. “Greg’s not here. You need an HR present to fire someone.”

Irene cocks an eyebrow, appraising him, and realises she might need sitting down to get past this final hurdle. She entwines her fingers and fixes her sharp gaze at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, I think...” she purses her lips, deciding on a more diplomatic opening statement, “Even if you aren’t exactly business-educated—”

“It’s just money,” Sherlock grimaces, “Money is mathematics made boring—”

“—You do realise,” Irene steamrolls over him, “that at the rate the company is burning through money, we fully expect to be insolvent by the end of the next fiscal year, right?”

Sherlock’s only reaction is a barely-noticeable swallow: he had clearly been too occupied otherwise to pay attention. Irene lowers her voice to a whisper.

“Nothing can be done unless there’s a... radical change in the uppermost ranks of management,” she turns to steal a glimpse of whether anybody outside can discern what they’re discussing, “Do you understand what I’m... implying? Until this ‘change’ happens, there’ll be more layoffs unless the board is forced to make some... tough decisions. Personnel reductions will keep happening, both in your branch and in Bowes Park. In fact, Henry’s layoff is a direct consequence of a personnel change in Bowes Park, but that’s for another time.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I am least interested in the personnel changes in Bowes Park!”

Irene lowes her gaze to the forms Sherlock has locked away. “Maybe... you should be. More interested, that is.”

Sherlock frowns, catching on to the prompting tone, but Irene shakes her head and taps loudly on the drawer.

“You know perfectly well your little actions don’t matter anymore. Sign the exit clearance forms and stop fighting this. It’s pointless.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw. Months of workarounds and loopholes have yielded nothing. He has yielded nothing; made no difference. Irene’s face nearly softens.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone. He eyes the signed exit clearance documentation with Henry’s name as if it were radioactive waste.

“She’s going to induce a change in the uppermost ranks of management... She is the GM; there’s only one person above her, and that’s Mycroft.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene and Sherlock sitting across from Henry in the conference room. Henry is frowning at both of them, lips puckered, spine laid back in non-cooperation. Across from him, Sherlock’s posture mirrors Henry’s but, unlike the latter man, the fight seems to have been kicked out of Sherlock: vacant eyes staring out the window, disinterested curve to his lips and legs too long and aimless and tangled for the uncomfortable nature of the current discussion.

Irene, on the other hand, has no expression on her face. She’s done this one too many times to have any sympathy left. Her back remains stiff, her movements careful and measured, her eyes boring into Henry as she mutters away in a monotone.

“... There are factors beyond our control. As I explained, to ensure its survival in this economy, the company must make tough choices... So, with that in mind, management has made this extremely difficult decision of making your role redundant within the organisation.”

Irene takes a pause, eyeing the box of tissues next to her, ready to hand them out at any time. Henry doesn’t even look at her; he’s just flipping through the pages of his employment termination contract. Irene glances at Sherlock to see if he has any input, but when both men remain unresponsive for more than two minutes, she grabs the reins once again.

“For your... trouble, the company is offering a goodwill package, which will be, including taxes, equivalent to—”

“It’s not goodwill. It’s severance,” Henry finally breaks free from his catatonia, his voice a seething wheeze, “I’m legally entitled to it. Don’t try to make it sound like you’re doing me a favour.”

Irene blinks rapidly, taken slightly aback by this belated rise in cattiness, “I... It has nothing to do with your performance—”

“Oh gee, golly!” Henry scoffs, cutting her off, “I sure am glad it has nothing to do with my _‘performance’! _Whatever would I do without H&H singing praises about my performance?”

Irene puckers her lips, braving through the bursts of sarcasm, “As I was saying, the company is prepared to offer three months of your compensation as goodwill—”

“You think I’d get one extra penny as ‘goodwill’ from _you_ people?” Henry’s voice keeps climbing in intensity and pitch, “And you’re doing it in front of the cameras?! You people are heartless bastards! Goodwill, my arse!”

Sherlock lets out a silent groan beside Irene, with a mutter of “stop saying goodwill”.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office, alone, lights blue and dim.

“Why do I even bother? Everything I did was in vain and this branch is stupid and pointless and nothing good is ever going to happen to it.”

* * *

“Henry,” Irene’s voice is admirably level, “I’d appreciate if some level of professional decorum—”

But Henry lets out a maniacal laugh, stopping her dead in her tracks.

“You... want _me..._ to maintain _‘decorum’?_ This has _got_ to be a sick fucking joke! Goodwill? Decorum?” He barks, letting out a snort, “I’ve got kids in school! Do you even know how expensive kids are?! Oh no, you don’t! You don’t have children; you’re not even married, and the tax benefits JUST DON’T CUT IT! Maybe if you two had families to go home to, you’d understand—”

“You’re already job-hunting,” Sherlock interjects, jaws clenched, unwilling to sit tight for another minute. Irene lets out an exasperated sigh. Henry scowls at him.

“Excuse me?!”

Sherlock sits up straight, his voice a detached monotone.

“You’re already job-hunting. You’ve been using the new laser printer for quite some time. The paper you used was the 32-pound A4 stock. While the 24-pound is most commonly used for resumés, the choice of heavier paper clearly suggests you’re looking to differentiate yourself from the other applicants. Conclusion: you’re printing something that requires you to impress. Plus you already knew this was coming. It shouldn’t come across as a surprise to you.”

Sherlock realises he’s just quoted a type of paper and lets out a silent, despairing gasp, but recovers quickly.

“If you already had a job offer, you would’ve put in your resignation, and we wouldn’t have had to pay you severance. So technically, we _are_ doing you a favour.”

Henry looks from Sherlock to Irene, flabbergasted, lower jaw alternating between opening and closing. He inhales a deliberate lungful, clenching his jaw as Sherlock’s eyes venture away, deflecting Henry’s accusing gaze.

“You...” Henry begins in a lower, equally indignant growl, “I haven’t _got_ a bloody job offer!”

“So what?” Sherlock shrugs, apathetic, “You’ll find one soon. You’re smart.”

“Oh, _I’m_ smart?” Henry lets out a chuckle, “The company thinks my performance is fine, and my useless manager thinks I’m smart! Good god, what a relief!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Irene decides that exact moment to jump back in, “Henry, it’s just business; it’s... not personal—”

“You know what?” Henry snatches the exit clearance documents and makes rapid signatures on every page, licking and flipping through them at an alarming speed, “You’re a prick, Sherlock. And you, Irene, are a bitch. I seriously hope you two die in a fiery car crash!”

Irene and Sherlock steal uneasy glances at each other before returning to a swearing Henry burning through the documents.

“Jesus Christ, son of God, you did nothing to save this branch!” He tosses the forms, and rolls and stuffs his copy into his trouser pocket before resuming his shouting match at Sherlock, “You came to office every day, got paid eighty-K for doing absolutely nothing—wait no, worse than nothing! You wasted the branch’s time and energy in stupid activities just because you were bored, you useless smackhead! You are stupid and pointless and nothing good is ever going to happen to you! ‘Find another job’, you say? Why don’t _you_ go and find another—?”

“Hey, hey, there’s no need to get personal,” Irene warns, but Henry promptly ignores her, reserving all his vitriol for Sherlock.

“You don’t even know what it’s like, living without money! ‘Find another job’, he says!”

And with that, Henry surges to his feet, his chair hitting the conference room door with a loud _crack. _He flings the door open and stomps out towards his desk, his face splotched with fury and emotion. The raised voices have attracted the attention of the entire branch, who all look quizzically towards the conference room, having heard parts of the conversation.

Irene lets out a tired sigh at last. “Well, that went well.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John surfing the internet at his desk. As soon as he hears the conference door open behind him, he makes the smooth switch to the company homepage.

“John,” Irene calls out, “Walk with me.”

Without waiting for John to follow, Irene promptly walks out the main door. John stands up gingerly as Sherlock looks at him with a vacant in his eyes. John returns a half-placating look before hobbling out the door.

* * *

Camera cuts to Molly in the conference room, dread in her eyes.

“I have never seen Henry so mad.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip in the conference room.

“Regardless of the economy, this was inevitable. This is what happens when you cross a grossly incompetent manager with an equally incompetent employee. But at least, he said what we all think.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mrs Hudson in the conference room, almost teary-eyed.

“I am going to miss Harry so much! He sat from across me for years, and the constant sound of his heavy breathing made me feel more relaxed than any hip soother.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Irene in the Ferndale Business Park building parking lot. It is such a trial for John to hold even a civil conversation with Irene that he doesn’t even speak first, waiting for her to state her business.

“So,” she lights a cigarette, oblivious to John’s prickly demeanour, “is your mind made up about the... the transfer?”

John frowns, glancing at the camera, before turning his back on us. “I... talked to you only after making up my mind. Why? Has something... changed?”

Shaking her head, Irene inhales deeply, and for a moment, releases no smoke from her nostrils. “Last time we spoke, I detected some ambivalence in your tone. We’ve had to move things, make... adjustments,” she glances up towards the Ferndale Business Park building, at the conference room window where she’d just fired Henry, “to accommodate your migration, so I want to be absolutely sure going forward. We don’t want to lose you too after...”

John cocks a hopeful eyebrow. “We?”

“The management,” Irene clarifies, taking the wind out of John’s sails. She takes another giant drag before continuing, “Have-have you... have you informed your manager?”

“It’s Sherlock,” John stuffs his fists in his pockets with a shrug, “He’s... probably figured out already. He’d have said something if he had any... objections.”

Irene raises an eyebrow, and John beats a hasty retreat, “I should probably send an email too.”

“Email?” Irene looks doubtful, “Are you sure?”

John nods stiffly as if trying not to contemplate how Sherlock would take the news via something as impersonal and formal as an email.

“I’m sure corporate will let Sherlock know. I’ll just be informing him out of courtesy.”

“Out of courtesy, sure... Well, John,” she extends a troubled hand, “good luck. Next time I see you, you’ll be working in Bowes Park. Under Jim Moriarty.” The idea doesn’t give her much relish.

“Actually, you’ll see me tonight, too. I’m getting this award for Most Consistent Salesman or something?” He emits a choked chuckle, letting go of her hand. Irene frowns, appraises him for a moment.

“Are you sure you want to leave Ferndale?”

John looks down; he really doesn’t want to leave. All he needs is just one sign from the universe to stay where he is, but the universe isn’t complying. The corner of Irene’s lip turns downward in sympathy. She burns through the rest of the cigarette pretty quickly before flicking the butt to the ground and crushing it under her heel.

“Why don’t you hold off for a few days? Sherlock had to let Henry go today, and your departure isn’t going to make him any happier. Maybe... hold off on announcing it to him for a few days?”

She waits for John to give her a tetchy nod and, with a flourish of her coat, clip-clops away towards her car. John tucks his chin into his chest in contemplation, wondering what he’s going to do next.

John stuffs his fists into his pockets, shivering a bit from the cold and finds the accusing camera focused on him.

“I’d have stayed here,” John begins to explain, “but yesterday, Mrs H came up to me and told me she felt sad that one of my friends had died,” he chuckles humourlessly, “Some of them even signed a condolence card. Later, I found out Heath Ledger had passed away a few days ago. And why is Heath Ledger my friend? Because he played Ennis Del Mar in _Brokeback Mountain_.”

All trace of humour gone from his face, John kicks a mound of snow with a grunt.

“The thought that it’s only going to get worse, well... I don’t want to stick around for that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John knocking on Sherlock’s office door. When he receives no response from inside, John takes the chance and creaks the door open, sticking his head inside.

“You okay?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up at him. He gives no indication that he has even heard John. John purses his lips and pries inside, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he remains standing, eyeing Sherlock’s total detachment from his surroundings, but when Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him for over a minute, John blows out a breath.

“You know I was... thinking about pulling a Pavlov on Philip? Train him to salivate to the chime of my Windows theme or something?”

That gets him Sherlock’s attention, but not a good mood.

“I assume you also have some sort of comment on my ‘management practices’? Or would you like to give me some more helpful advice on how I shouldn’t sleep with my boss or how little self-control a smackhead like myself has?”

John opens his mouth to retort, but holds himself back with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“You know, someone recently pointed out that I don’t follow my own advice so...” he looks down at his crossed legs, “I think I’m going to start doing that instead.”

That throws Sherlock off a bit, as if he had been expecting a verbal jab to comfort himself with. After a long time, Sherlock pulls the curtain of his unaffected persona over his expression.

“I am not what you thought, John. I have no power. There’s nothing more to be done.”

“There’s always something to be done,” John tries to light a final flicker of faith, “It’s you. _You_ can always do something.”

Sherlock shrugs, pulling the plug on any emotions with a harrumph, “It’s over. I tried, and it didn’t work.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the conference room, shattered by the dead look in Sherlock’s usually bright, alive eyes.

“That’s not... that’s not Sherlock in there,” he shakes his head, alternating between deep breaths and maniacal grins, “Nope. Sherlock doesn’t just give up. He’s definitely planning something. He has to. Because that... _character_ with no energy or agency, that’s not Sherlock,” he lets out a groan, low and guttural, “That’s what our previous manager was like. That’s what Philip would’ve been like had Irene made him the manager... _She_ did it, finally; made Sherlock into that.”

* * *

Camera cuts to a massive banquet hall, gleaming and glittering with the contrast between the circular, canary yellow tabletops and the black-clothed chairs and alternating sets of champagne flutes and Bordeaux glasses. The sleek, modern, glass-enclosed hall—consisting of extravagant chandeliers hanging from its ceiling and floor covered with rich, crimson-patterned Edwardian carpet—looks even more magnificent against the backdrop of the vibrant evening city lights reflecting off the serene surface of the Thames.

It’s the convention hall H&H has booked for Awards Night. This is not what a doomed company should be lavishing their money on.

With the event just a matter of hours away, the hotel staff is busy at work, with the Bluetooth-headset-donning event coordinator deep in hurried conversation with Greg. A sparrow shoots past Greg’s ear and out the open window, trilling away with the joy of the power of flight, but Greg’s full attention is on the organisational details.

He notices the cameras and holds up a busy hand. Turns around to puff his lungs up with air and yell at one of the employees from H&H corporate.

“Steph, can you please check the status of the buses coming in from Bracknell? And Andre, have the kids sorted the welcome kits?”

He seems to rethink his statement and turns to the camera, “By kids, I mean the adult trainees that volunteered to be part of the organising committee. They are bonafide employees. They have graduated from university... We do not employ children.”

Stressed out, Greg blows out a breath, tugging at his tie and the lapel of his creased suit jacket.

“I need to get changed. A certain someone has asked me to be the emcee for the event as a favour to him. As you can see, the organising committee blew through the budget over the venue, so I have the honour. Well, my ex-wife and I, both; we’re both emceeing. The organising committee decided on both male and female co-hosts.”

He flashes the first happy grin we’ve seen since we began filming the documentary.

“I am very funny. I make Alyssa laugh all the time. Her mother is a lost cause, but I think I’ll have another admirer by the end of the night...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Anne, Greg’s ex-wife, in the H&H corporate office.

“Greg makes dad jokes. They’re not that funny.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his office after five-thirty pm, reading _The Looming Tower_ with an expression grumpy enough to rival Oscar the Grouch. There’s a hesitant knock on his door.

“Get it over with!” Sherlock growls at it.

The door creaks open to reveal Mrs Hudson, clutching her purple purse with her chalk-white fingers. Her worried gaze flits around the room, never settling on a person or object for too long.

“You coming, dear?”

Sherlock frowns. “Where?”

“Awards Night, of course!” She cautiously glances over her shoulder at Henry’s now-empty desk, “You... you do know you _have_ to be there, don’t you?”

“Yes, fine,” he grunts, not taking his eyes off the book.

“I took Henry’s name off the awardees’ list... if you should know,” Mrs Hudson bites her lip, wary of approaching him, whose eyes snap up at once.

“Weren’t you supposed to leave an hour ago—?”

“It is so sad!” Mrs Hudson closes the door behind her, plopping down from across a bemused Sherlock who grits his teeth and goes back to his book, “Henry was such a nice man. Nice men are so rare, aren’t they?”

“So is the Bornean Orangutan but nobody makes a fuss about them.”

“I remember Henry’s first day,” she nearly tears up, and Sherlock grimaces, “His wife was still pregnant with their eldest back then...”

Sherlock lets out a groan at the outpour of emotion, trying his best to read on, but Mrs Hudson whimpers away.

“Oh, I’m being so silly, crying over Henry on today of all days! I was just telling Greg the other day, oh, I really shouldn’t say...”

“I agree; it sounds private. No need to discuss it with me—”

“Such a shame, isn’t it? Henry told me how surprised he was, and his wife too, that they were looking forward to the Awards Night... If only he knew today was the day...” she nearly blows her nose, and Sherlock smacks down his book, all concentration lost, “I hope he keeps in touch...”

“Did you not hear me when I said there was no need to discuss it with me—?”

“And his kids!” Mrs Hudson rampages on, “Such lovely boys, both of them. D’you know where they go? Oliver just got into prep school, you know. And their littlest, the chubby, pink-nosed one...”

Springing from his chair without another word, Sherlock throws open the door to his cupboard, revealing several board games, a tray full of disintegrated remote controls, books and a decanter of whisky. Mrs Hudson carries on, oblivious.

“It’s a terrible shame, letting him go. He really needed this job...”

“Maybe a drink will help,” Sherlock slams the whisky down on the table, making Mrs Hudson jump in her chair, “Put some alcohol in your mouth to block the words from coming out.”

Mrs Hudson sniffs as she unstoppers the decanter, “Why do _you_ have whisky in your office?”

“_I_ don’t drink it! It’s been here since before me.”

“Oh,” she cheers up instantly, “must be good then. Do you have ice?”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow as if asking _do you need ice_. Mrs Hudson shrugs and takes a sip directly, wincing and chuckling at the burning sensation, and a pleased smirk spreads on Sherlock’s face.

“There. Isn’t life better now?”

“Oh, don’t pretend, Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs Hudson gives a hiccup, “You know what you’ve done is so very wrong! I once told you that a good manager cares about his employees, and you...”

Sherlock’s upper lip curls in indignation and he snatches the decanter away, “You have to drive.”

“Oh, well...” Mrs Hudson shakes her head as Sherlock pulls her to her feet by her waist, “Can’t even blame you completely. It wasn’t up to you. Nothing’s up to you, or us, or anyone.”

“That’s good,” he keeps overriding her, carrying her to outside his office door, “Bye-bye.”

With that, Sherlock shuts the office door before she can turn back in. He heaves a sigh of relief, his gaze falling over his abandoned book and Henry’s exit clearance documentation underneath.

“Ugh, paperwork...”

Through the blinds in Sherlock’s office, we see Mrs Hudson scurry away, muttering about Henry’s children as if Sherlock’s actions had somehow plummeted them to a lifetime of poverty and misery. Sherlock waits for her to leave and dashes back to his desk. He sweeps his book out of the way and begins entering details into his computer, invigorated.

“I’m not doing paperwork. And neither am I going to Awards Night,” Sherlock glances at the camera, steely resolve flickering like a dying flame in his eyes, fighting for one last chance. “I don’t care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is how I imagine the Awards Night banquet hall:
> 
> I know this isn't London, but the scene is simply too picturesque not to include here (took it off Marriott's website). I know this seems too financially reckless for a doomed company but hey, maybe this is one of the reasons why the company is so doomed.
> 
> Heath Ledger passed away on January 22, 2008 (RIP). This chapter technically takes place on January 25, 2008 (the last Friday of January). I swear it's a coincidence. I don't plan my chapters around celebrity deaths.
> 
> In Scene I, Sherlock is reading _The Looming Tower_ by Lawrence Wright. It describes the events leading up to 9/11, the terrorists responsible and, to some extent, focuses on people within the American intelligence community who warned about it. I like to think Sherlock is reading this book because of John O'Neill—the head of FBI New York's counterterrorism division at the time—who warned that an attack like 9/11 was imminent, had his years of hard work erased to nothing when he was pushed out of FBI and ultimately died in the 9/11 attacks when he started working as the chief of security for WTC. Sort of thought Sherlock might sympathise with that level of hopelessness idk


	21. Awards Night: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes rogue. Philip goes nuclear in a final, terrible attempt to get Sally back. Amidst emceeing, Greg has to deal with a crisis at home and Mycroft comes to grips with the real Greg. John reveals a major development to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Sexual harassment, and some racist/sexist comments
> 
> Sorry this took a little longer than I expected. I wrote 5 first drafts of this chapter with different plot points and three different endings and then had to swerve away from this fic to write a little Halloween crack :D
> 
> **NOTE:** At some points, we will have actual camera crew POV, like things actually happening to the camera crew separate from Sherlock or John or whoever. So don’t be alarmed when you hear first-person POV like ‘We nearly beg the dog lady not to call the police’. After all, this fic is, first and foremost, the camera crew of H&H describing the events of the documentary and some of the events will happen to these fellas as well. But don’t worry; these sections are small.
> 
> I'm glad I split the chapter! I hadn't finished Awards Night and the extra time I took made me revise the middle parts completely. I was going to have Greg do a lot of dad jokes as an emcee but instead, I took a break, watched a couple of Parks and Rec and Peep Show episodes, and it really gave me new ideas on how to wrap up the middle scenes neatly (so you'll probably see some loose inspirations here if you're familiar with these shows) and also happened to hit all the plot points on my checklist (which had become impossible in the earlier draft).
> 
> This is the first time I'm finishing a fic of this length. I've written longer than this (my longest goes up to 200k and counting), but this is the first time I'VE FINISHED!

Camera cuts to the Awards Night banquet hall, now resplendent with lights, chatter punctuated by jazz music in the background, and waiters with appetisers and cocktails. It’s quarter-to-six, and the eight-seater circular tables are nearly filled with people. The bar already has patrons from various H&H branches in South England: Bracknell, Bowes Park and Ferndale, along with a few employees from the northern offices and a few management-level employees from factories and paper mills across the UK.

Near the stage, the mic checks are nearly complete, with the giant LED screen consisting of the H&H company logo bouncing off its walls. Greg sports his best evening attire, his grey-peppered hair a lovely contrast against his shiny black tux, mingling away with the H&H bigshots with Mycroft next to him donning the phoniest polite smile in all of human history. On the stage, we see Mrs Hudson and a couple of other volunteers arranging the awards on a table.

We cut to Sally, looking lovely in a black cocktail dress, in a quiet corner with her steady boyfriend, Brandon. She notices the camera and rolls her eyes.

“Can you believe this?” She gesticulates at the convention hall, “The money they spent on this convention hall, after all the layoffs last year! After Henry lost his job today?” She shakes her head, “I just want to take the stupid board of directors and wring them by their necks!”

Beside her, Brandon lets off a sigh, inspecting a portion of the ceiling that has suddenly hijacked his interest, “I know, babe. Do you want me to get you anything?”

“Yeah, just something light.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Brandon at the bar, getting drinks for himself and Sally. The saxophone track in the music envelops the atmosphere in a cosy, pretentious cocoon.

“Sally’s wonderful, yeah, but I don’t get why she’s so... I don’t know, she talks around, yeah. She’s usually cool at the pub, but these office thingies make her break out too... much. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight; I was supposed to be putting up some furniture at my sis’, but Sally got weirdly suspicious and I... gave in. I mean, I like her. It’s not like I’m just going to go and cheat on her, right?”

His eyes flicker towards Sally, whom he finds accosted by Philip, still in the same work clothes. Brandon bares a threatening canine, readying himself in preparation of hustling back to them, drinks forgotten.

* * *

Camera cuts to Philip strutting over to Sally, with a scruffy-looking man in his late-twenties in a jumper and shirt too clean for his untidy blond hair behind him. Sally sees them approach and lets out an all-suffering sigh.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

“Piss off, Philip,” Sally folds her arms as Philip slides a hand into the small of her back.

“I’m ready to resume our relationship. Look, monkey, I accept that you wanted to take a brief hiatus—”

“Philip, why have you brought…?” Sally gapes at the man accompanying Philip who has begun to take a sip out of a rogue gin and tonic on a nearby table, “Peter, don’t drink that! Philip, there’s alcohol here; why would you bring your cousin here, of all places?”

“He wanted to come, okay? Peter takes an interest in my office life.”

“I don’t,” Peter pipes in, and Sally flashes Philip a humourless smile at that, “I came because Philip said he needed me to remind you how good things used to be—”

“Shut up, Peter,” Philip hisses, “So, as I was saying, I should get you a drink and maybe,” his hand climbs upward, encapsulating Sally in a half-embrace which she tries to edge away from, “we should talk...”

Sally grits her teeth. “Why should we talk about anything?”

“That is an excellent question. Thank you for asking,” Philip retrieves a notepad from the pocket of the suit jacket, and Sally lets out a scoff, “Let me bring up one word: dedication—”

“Is that the notepad from our welcome kits?”

“I always listen to you. I am very much into you—”

“Are you...” Sally’s mouth falls open in astonishment, “_actually _giving me a sales pitch on yourself?”

“—I can make you laugh way easily than Brian—”

“Brandon,” Sally swats Philip’s hand away, trying to wriggle out of his grip.

“—I took care of you every time you had the flu, even the time I caught it from you. I accept everything about you: your hotness, your bitchiness, your drive,” Philip boops her on the nose, and Sally staggers backwards, appalled at his behaviour, “Please, I can’t live without you.”

“Stop. Touching. Me,” Sally’s voice almost wavers.

“Oi!”

Both Philip and Sally turn around at once at the boom. Only to see Sally’s boyfriend rushing over to them, uncaring that hordes of people are peering around at the commotion. The split-second of distraction is all Sally needs to break free of Philip’s grip.

“Get off her!”

Philip’s face sours, but he lets Sally slip away as Brandon puts himself between them and looms over Philip threateningly. Philip, whether out of bravery or plain stupidity, dares to puff his chest to meet Brandon’s stature, arms akimbo. Peter, beside Philip, tries to pull him away from trouble, but Philip doesn’t relent.

Sally grits her teeth, hiding her face. Brandon’s eyes flicker off towards her, “He bothering you?”

“Yes!” Philip hisses, just as Sally lets out an overlapping, “No.” Her eyes dart around; people, especially those who’ve formerly worked with her, are starting to whisper as the confrontation between Philip and Brandon gathers steam.

“Get lost, alright?”

Philip takes a step into Brandon’s personal space, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Punch you till your face is a bloody, snotty blob?”

“Philip,” Peter murmurs in Philip’s ear, grabbing him by the sleeve, “Dial it down, you moron.”

“Oh, please!” Philip scoffs and shakes Peter off, turning to Sally, “Sure, in a wrestling match, Kirk would win—”

“You’re pathetic,” Sally spits.

“—But overall, who would you rather have at the helm of your Sovereign-class starship?” Philip points two thumbs at himself, “Jean-Luc Picard.”

“You say you listen to me?” Sally hisses, “Well, I am telling you I don’t want anything to do with you! You need to learn to take a ‘no’ for an answer!”

“What he needs is a restraining order,” Brandon retorts, and Philip flashes his teeth in a menacing grin.

“Oh, so you can’t even fight your own battles, buster? You want to involve the police, _little girl?”_

No sooner does Philip take another step towards Brandon, Peter grabs Philip by the arm, pulling him away, “Hey, hey—”

“Yeah, take him away,” Sally shakes her head, wrapping her shawl around her.

“Go away, Peter!” Philip tries to shake his cousin off, “I will mow down this pathetic excuse of a man...”

But Peter keeps dragging him away from a mortified Sally and a protesting Brandon, who takes a sip of Peter’s drink without realising, gazing at Philip’s retreating figure with intense loathing. Sally tries to shake off the aftereffects of Philip’s behaviour with a shrug but ends up looking like she’s chewing on a bitter tablet.

“Ugh. How do you even work with him every day?”

Sally doesn’t face him, “There’s nothing he can do to me.”

“He was feeling you up, Sally.”

Brandon stops short to let that sink into Sally’s mind. She steals once glance of his face and suddenly becomes busy rummaging through her purse.

“A guy did that to my sister once,” Brandon continues, eyeing Sally’s meek posture and her complete unwillingness to discuss the matter, “She filed one of those ‘he groped me’ things with the HR guy. Got him fired, said she felt much safer after he was gone.”

That earns him a distasteful look from Sally. “It’s not that simple, alright? Philip is an ex. He isn’t ‘harassing’ me.”

Brandon lets out a humourless chuckle, “Just tryna help you. What are you going to do the next time I’m not around? In your office, for example?”

Sally eyes him as she evaluates his words, deciding that rummaging around in a small purse isn’t helping her cause.

“Well, I don’t need your help, alright?” She mutters, eyeing his glass, “I just need that beer you were going to get me.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mycroft engaged in polite chatter with a few H&H execs, many of them white, elderly, bald-as-a-cueball. His eyes flicker to Greg, engaged in another conversational table nearby next to his ex-wife, Anne, as a random Louis Armstrong song floats around in the background.

“Well, I don’t know about Greg,” Anne, dressed in an ankle-length bottle green chiffon dress, remarks, smiling at Greg, “but I did a lot of moot court competitions back in university, and I am not at all nervous about co-hosting.”

Greg chuckles goodnaturedly. “And I am not a lawyer like Anne; therefore, I _will _tell the truth: I am nervous.”

Anne playfully smacks Greg on the arm, “Quiet, you! Anyway,” she turns back to the group, “how nice is this? Every year, an outsider does this, but this time, Greg has promised inside jokes on the HR department!” 

Mycroft’s upper lip curls in displeasure at the sight of Greg grinning at Anne, but he camouflages it by taking a sip of his wine. With a polite ‘excuse me’ to his peers, Mycroft edges away from the group, seeking solitude. He turns to the camera with a glare so chilling it’s as if someone has thrown open the windows to sweep away the warmth with lacerating mid-January gusts. If Sherlock can make threats of euthanasia with the words ‘sodium thiopental’, Mycroft can do the same with a single look.

“If you follow me again, I will make sure the BBC blacklists you and you never find any work.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in a black sheath dress, smiling and listening to a few other H&H board members: almost all of them white, elderly, pompous men. A lone, ambitious, expectant new hire wanders around them, having taken words like ‘networking’ and ‘upward mobility’ too literally.

“When Irene arrived,” the most pompous of them, all whitening tufts and shaking fingers, prattles on, “I thought she was a shrewd appointment. Old Ben Holmes—may he rest in peace, I knew him since my Magdalen days—he told me about this brilliant, young intern who had caught his eye,” he leers at Irene, displaying his flawless rows of false teeth. “And then I saw this vixen, and I knew exactly what had caught his eye.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in a secluded corner.

“Every year. Without fail.”

* * *

The rest of the men cackle away at the creepy mannerisms but in soft, high-society ways. Irene smiles away, unperturbed.

“Oh, don’t look so vexed, dear,” another exec simpers, “It’s just a compliment.”

“I’m sure it was,” Irene responds, fighting every urge to ask ‘in what way’, “Gentlemen, will you excuse me?”

“We did you a favour, you know,” the earlier speaker retorts patronisingly, ignoring her polite attempts at bailing. “You... you were too young, too... inexperienced, and the company needed a strong... ahem, leader. You bid your time, and that is cute. Those skirts help with that, don’t they?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in a corner, having abandoned the creepy gasbags to their tedious chatter.

“Mycroft was thirty when he became CEO. He had worked with H&H for two years. I was twenty-nine and had already put in eight years more than Mycroft had. Inexperience? Sure.”

She inhales deeply to calm herself down, counting backwards from ten until her flushed face regains its usual paleness.

“Just two more months, and then they won’t be able to hide behind Mycroft’s perfumed arse anymore... Why? Well,” she smirks as if she’s got an ace hidden up her sleeve, “Let’s just say they won’t be able to hide if there’s no one to hide behind.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock still in his office after six pm, gathering his coat and his things in a frenzy.

“Okay, I know I said money is mathematics made boring, but I used the last half-an-hour to teach myself how to create a full annual financial plan for Henry Dempsey and his family. It’s child’s play. Can’t believe accountants need a degree and years of study to do this.”

Sherlock holds up a haphazard folder with monochromatic pie charts in it.

“The ink was gone from the colour printers,” he explains dismissively, “But forget that! Look at the content. Here, I have extracted all relevant information about Henry Dempsey from the internet and accounted for every little factor, every possible deviation from a seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables.”

He turns over the page on some number-related mumbo-jumbo that is too fine print-like for human eyes to make out, “Here’s a breakdown of their projected income versus expenditure for the next ten years. The average dependency of an offspring on their parents is around ten years; hence I have used that in my calculations,” he takes a deep breath as if rising to the surface of the water after a long time underwater. “This way, I can hack my way into controlling Henry Knight’s finances for the next ten years and thus avoid any mishap as a result of today’s events. Am I obsessing? Am I obsessing? Is this too much? Is this too much?”

Sherlock inhales deeply again, running out of breath to power his desperate, long-winded sentences with. The veins in his neck stand out like whipcord and his eyes burn with single-minded fervour the way Hitler’s eyes must have burnt before he decided to invade Stalingrad.

“No! If anything, it’s not enough! There needs to be a comprehensive month-by-month breakdown of their family budget, including sections on miscellaneous spending such as on clothes and family vacations. Oh yes, they’ll be on a shoestring budget, and I mean that literally because I _will _have them buy shoestring instead of new shoes if they shoot out of their budget by even a penny.”

He pats the folder, stuffing it into his leather briefcase, “Going over to Henry’s house to lay it out for him. I think he’ll find this extremely helpful... What? Yes, I know I said this branch is stupid and pointless and nothing good is ever going to happen to it, but it’s not about this branch anymore! There’s always a loophole, always a way around things. And if this doesn’t work, then I just have to... make my peace.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John at the bar, waiting for his drink. He notices the camera and nods in acknowledgement.

“My plans tonight...? I will try and figure out the maximum amount of alcohol I can put in my mouth before I start to stagger. Then, I’ll collect my stupid award and I’ll drink some more like an irresponsible twenty-year-old. Those are my plans. Probably hang out with Sherlock...” he looks around, glancing at his watch, “if he ever manages to reach here. When is he—?”

“One vodka tonic,” a nasal, very irritating voice stops John in his tracks as Philip Anderson slides between patrons, and turns around to discover John, “Oh, you. Why are you here? I thought you hated parties.”

John assesses Philip from head to toe as well as his cousin Peter, mood considerably uplifted upon meeting a familiar, even if annoying, face.

“True, but this time, I _have_ got an award, you know,” he smirks, making Philip bristle at the reminder.

“Ha ha ha, John. You got the award; you’re the superior salesman. I must bow to you. Anything else that I missed out?”

“No, that pretty much covered my feelings.”

Philip’s frown grows more acidic. Semi-public humiliation, public rejection, and now taunting comments: not a good day for him. “Good, so go and leave me alone!”

Taken aback at Philip yielding so easily, John turns his focus onto Peter, “Hi, I’m John. I work with your father.”

Peter lets out a snort, but before he can respond, Philip jumps in, glowering murderously.

“Piss off, John! This is my cousin, Peter.”

“Oh, right, I remember,” John flashes a friendly smile, “Nice to meet you.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in a corner, happier to have got his dose of exhilaration from getting a rise out of Philip.

“I’ve heard about Peter as long as I’ve worked here… He’s Philip’s cousin, a recovering drug addict, seventeen months sober, I think. Philip’s been working hard to keep him off the sweeties forever, but this is the first time I’ve met him… God, that takes me back…”

A wistful smile blooms on John’s face, which soon becomes awash with horrible realisation.

“Shit, I’m going to miss that annoying dick…” he grits his teeth in annoyance, lips pressing into a white slash at the notion, “Maybe I should leave him with a parting gift or something...”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John, Philip and Peter at the bar.

“Why’d you bring your cousin to this place with… booze and… you know?”

“Are we in Communist Russia?” Philip arches a challenging eyebrow, increasing his chances of death by strangulation by 200%, “No? Didn’t think so.”

John rolls his eyes. “God, you get on my nerves, Philip. You have a real talent, you know.”

“Yes, _I’ve_ got a talent,” Philip bites back, his drink forgotten, “That’s why they’re giving _you_ the award.”

“You seem bothered, Philip—”

“I’m not bothered!” Philip counters back almost quickly.

“Anyway,” John licks his lower lip deliberately, enjoying the spar to its fullest, “I came just to ‘network’ with the lower-level company people who’ve _not_ won an award. As they’d probably say in one of your shows, I’m the Yoda of networking.”

“Yoda wouldn’t need networking,” Philip mutters angrily, “His powers were more spiritual.”

“And my power is great salesmanship, which I’m rather good at because I’m getting an award.”

“Vanity is unbecoming of an award winner.”

John straightens the lapel of his jacket for his mic-drop moment. “Everything I do is extremely becoming of an award winner because I’ve won an award.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in a corner, delight filling his face.

“Why am I acting like an arse…? Because I just figured out what my parting gift to Philip is going to be. I intend to decline this award nonsense and give it to Philip. I mean, Philip works hard, and I don’t. And awards mean a lot more to him than it’ll ever mean to me… I know Sherlock probably did it to piss him off, but I should set things right before I leave…”

John’s grin grows more gleeful.

“But before that, I just can’t resist the opportunity to mess with him for a bit.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John, Philip and Peter at the bar.

“I mean it, Philip; you deserve an award,” John simpers away, “Not this one, obviously. This one belongs to me. But some other one. Some other lesser award.”

“That’s right, Big P,” Peter, roused by the friendly exchange, claps a homicidal Philip on the back, “you deserve an award.”

Philip simply glares away at John, his frown so dark and demonic they provoke shivers up the spine, “Congratulations, John.”

“What’s that?”

“I said congratulations, John,” with that, Philip nearly storms away and out of the banquet hall, leaving Peter to chase after him dutifully and John to snicker at the camera.

“I’m thinking about hiring that photographer for an hour to take special award pictures of me in front of Philip,” he points to a forty-something woman from the event management team clicking pictures, “Will fifty quid be enough?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg backstage, grinning excitedly and refilling up on water.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to do a good job tonight,” he takes a peep at the crowd and blows out a shaky breath, “Wish me luck!”

* * *

Camera cuts to the Awards Night stage, with Greg and Anne at the podium with collar mics. The jazz band stops playing as the lights dim around the banquet hall, drawing blinding focus onto the screen behind. The H&H logo has stopped bouncing off the walls and now contains the bold Arial text of ‘H&H Awards Night’ on a Powerpoint presentation screen.

“Hello,” Greg takes the mic first, “and welcome everyone, to this year’s Employees’ Annual Recognition Night.”

Greg’s generic opener is met with generous applause, which further bolsters his confidence, “Where you E-A-R-N your awards!”

Almost immediately, the clapping subsides, as if someone had just declared that the Queen was arriving. The microphone emits mutinous feedback, and Greg clears his throat, pretending he didn’t just kill the room’s buzz. In the front rows, Mycroft, sandwiched between the H&H executives, scowls at the acronym.

“So, to kick things off this year,” Anne continues after the utterly minor hitch, “we have our welcome address by Alan Bentley...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Anne, backstage, shaking her head.

“He did not run that opener by me. He should’ve run that opener by me.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg backstage again, guzzling down more water, sweat threatening to break through his shirt. We see Anne on the podium, announcing the recipient of the next award amongst the scattered microphone feedbacks and the musical chiming and clinking of wine glasses.

“Tough crowd, eh? Took me two hours to come up with that opener...”

“... Derek is an exceptional worker,” one of the H&H execs previously mingling with Mycroft expresses his appreciation on the stage. “He was responsible for singlehandedly coordinating the control systems update for our waste pulp re-purposing plant in Lancaster, one of the few bright spots in H&H’s future...”

“Well,” Greg reevaluates upon hearing that last bit, “we were off to a rough start, but now we’re getting better, aren’t we?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock in his car, hidden in the cover of trees on the pavement from across a row of suburban terrace houses in Addiscombe. We, the three members of the camera crew, are cramped in the backseat. One of us could have had a front seat, but our mistake was calling bagsy. Sherlock does not abide by the rules of bagsy. Sherlock believes in keeping fellow humans as far away from him as possible.

“That is Henry’s house,” Sherlock grabs a pair of binoculars and peers through them at the silhouette against the first-floor bay window curtains, “When I’m done with him, he’ll be living in a much less spacious residence.”

He seems to rethink his words, “Perhaps, I should use ‘economical’ instead of ‘less spacious’. Apparently, there are wrong words and right words to describe certain situations... What? You need a permit to film in public? Oh, shut up! It’ll take only fifteen minutes... Fine, stay in the car and follow the law like boring people!”

He stashes his binoculars into the glove box and throws the car door open, grabbing his budget folder. A few houses away, we see a woman walking her dog frowning at our camera setup; it’s too big a risk to follow Sherlock into the jaws of delinquency.

* * *

Camera cuts to John sitting at a solitary table farthest from the stage, having traded beer for rum. From his vantage point, Greg and Anne appear like two action figures who’ve come to life and are trying very hard to bring the same energy to the crowd in front of them.

“Why did the scarecrow win an award?” Greg’s voice is a distant echo, “Because he was out-‘standing’ in his field! Next up, we have...”

As scattered clapping ensues, John smirks at the camera, opening his mouth to comment. But, before he can, a hand claps him on the shoulder, startling him out of his skin.

“This seat taken?” A sing-song voice asks. John heaves a near-silent groan and turns, wincing.

“Jim,” he murmurs, “what a surprise.”

Jim Moriarty lets out a delighted bleat, drowning out John’s peaceful enjoyment of Greg’s jokes, “One year, Johnny! D’you remember? This is where we met a year ago!”

“Yes,” John grimaces, “How could I not remember?”

An excited mess, Jim claps another hand on John’s arm, sobering John up in an instant, “Now, I know I’m not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but I can’t wait! You’re finally mine! Goodness, I could eat you up!”

John eases out of Jim’s grip, “Just a job, Jim. Not getting married.”

“Oh, oh, I know, I know!” Jim lets out a cackle behind the back of his palm, “Wait, wait, I want to introduce you to someone. One of your future colleagues. Accountant extraordinaire!”

And before John can prevent him from forcing him to talk to new people, Jim lets out an ungainly whisper-shout towards a woman seated two tables away, “Janine! JANINE!!”

Cringing, John tries his best to hide behind Jim’s short, slim figure, but to no avail. A minute later, a puzzled brunette in her early thirties makes a reluctant path towards Jim. Jim lunges forward and grabs her wrist, forcing her into the chair beside him, and the woman cries a yelp of surprise.

“Janine Hawkins at your service,” Jim presents her proudly, “Janine is the office mattress. She will do you.”

Janine is a sight to behold in her simple, light purple evening dress. Her long-suffering smile dissolves into a disapproving scowl at Jim’s remark, but she has enough dignity not to grace him with a reaction. She offers John a polite stretch of the lips and extends her hand, “Hi.”

“And this is John Hotson,” Jim grins, “Sorry, John Watson. Same thing, though,” he turns to Janine, “John will be starting with us next week.”

John frowns at the camera before shaking Janine’s hand, “Nice to meet you, Janine.”

“Looking forward to working with you, John.”

Janine appears to manage a surprisingly bright smile in the face of her boss’ casual sexism, but it dissolves as soon as Jim opens his mouth once again.

“Janine’s dad served in Suez. That’s why she’s so exotic-looking.”

John’s frown grows darker at the insinuation, but Jim doesn’t even seem to notice. This time, Janine doesn’t remain silent.

“Seriously, Jim?! Suez happened in the fifties!”

Jim lets out a snort, pitching his voice to a shrill high to imitate Janine’s voice, _“Seriously, Jim?!_ Relax, Princess Jasmine! What are you going to do, sue me?”

John casts an apprehensive look at the camera: what the hell is he getting himself into?

* * *

Camera cuts to Janine, in a faraway corner from John and Jim. She looks worn down by Jim’s comments, almost apathetic about them, as if she’s become institutionalised in the prison called ‘Jim Moriarty’. In the background behind her, people keep collecting their awards from the stage, and managers keep buttering their employees during their one night of appreciation.

“I’m half-Pakistani on my mum’s side. She passed away before my dad got stationed in Kuwait, not Egypt. So, go figure.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Jim, John and Janine, a triangle of awkward misery and obnoxious cacophony.

“Want something to drink, Janine?” Jim leers at her, “Wait, wait, I got a Cosmopolitan joke! Something... something about a taxidermist in a bar in Budapest...” Jim abruptly subsides into a thoughtful pose, trying to recall his joke, while Janine and John wait for him to come up with something that tops the list of offensive things already uttered.

“Ugh, ugh,” Jim groans, “This... I can’t remember...”

Janine shrugs, “I have to go. Mary is probably going to be lonely without me. Text me if you remember.”

And without waiting for Jim’s response, she rushes back to her table, making Jim grunt in frustration. A flash of a camera goes off in front of them, causing Jim to whip his glare onto the photographer, ready to shoot lightning bolts out of his eyes. The happy-go-lucky attitude has vanished. Gone are the leers and the giggles and the exemplary film imitations, to be replaced by cold snarls and bared canines.

“Sorry about that,” John pipes in before Jim can open his mouth, “I hired her for the hour.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg and Anne on the stage again, now completely in the emceeing groove. Mycroft stands near the awards table, arms crossed, inscrutable smile hiding his distaste for the limelight.

“... The recipient of Benjamin Francois Holmes Lifetime Achievement is Irene Adler...”

As applause breaks out around the hall, Irene makes the dainty climb to the stage where Mycroft stands, ready to present her with her award and another of his phoney, polite smiles. Hand-shakings, photograph-clickings and congratulations ensue as a naive volunteer shoves a microphone under Mycroft’s nose so that he can spout some words of appreciation towards Irene.

In the crowd, sitting amongst the remaining staff of H&H Ferndale, Molly immediately spots the camera and flashes a smirk, mouthing “every year”.

* * *

Camera cuts to Mycroft in a corner, hidden from the mingling crowd by a flower bouquet.

“Yes, when I have to rally the employees, I usually turn into Father Christmas. But I refuse to lather Irene up. Therefore, I’ll be delivering a speech of cold-hard facts... Do I realise that the event is called Employee Recognition Night? Yes, but she is an exception.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Mycroft on the stage with Irene clutching her award, jaws clenched as if anticipating Mycroft’s words.

“Irene. Is a woman.”

Mycroft pauses, surveying the crowd, before continuing in the same deliberate manner.

“She. Oversees. The entire sales department. Of H&H...” He pauses again, enunciating each word. Irene rolls her eyes at the dramatics, deeply unimpressed.

“She. Has been. With our company. For more than a decade,” each word from Mycroft hangs in the air, reverberating throughout the hall, “Fourteen years! That’s how long a pitbull lives if one puts a proper muzzle on it.”

Several unsettled glances rebound across the hall between the seated company employees, not sure how to react to Mycroft’s speech.

“So, Irene,” Mycroft turns to gaze at her, a snide smirk dancing on the corner of his lips, “You have indeed won this award... It is also true that this is the third time you are receiving this award. You will be congratulated. You will be clapped at...”

* * *

Camera cuts to Irene in a secluded corner, still clutching her award.

“Thank you for your wishes... Yes, I have won this absolutely meaningless award for the third time now. And I’ve heard three similar versions of that deeply appreciative speech each time. It’s only fitting that I respond in kind.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Mycroft and Irene, this time the microphone in Irene’s hands.

“Thank you for this award, Mycroft,” she chirps. “Truly. You’re truly the kindest, most supportive, most appreciative boss anyone could ever have. You spout words of wisdom like an evergreen fountain. And each year that I re-receive this award,” she brandishes the little trophy at him, “the better it gets. Thank you.”

Sporadic applause breaks out from the hall. Irene sets the mic down and flashes Mycroft and the rest of the crowd a grin before strutting back to her table.

* * *

Camera cuts to Jim still harassing John at the Awards Night with his constant worshipful banter. John glances at the camera, begging to be saved. Jim is his new _de facto _manager now, and John can’t just walk away. And even if he does, Jim would just follow him shamelessly.

The photographer John had hired for an hour takes another shot, flash saturating John’s eyes and making his wince. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Philip abandon his cousin Peter, marching towards John, walking past tables and tables of H&H employees with angry whispers of ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’. John straightens up a bit. First, Jim, and now Philip. Though, in all fairness, Philip is a much lesser evil.

Jim notices Philip too, for he frowns, turning to John. “Any relation of yours?”

“Yeah,” John snorts, “that might be my fault. I paid the photographer explicitly to piss him off.”

“Oh, John, John, John,” Jim appraises Philip’s approach with glee, slathering John with praise, “You’re going to be such a wonderful addition to my branch!”

“Sales office,” John corrects under his breath. He glances at the camera in alarm. Why does Jim keep talking about John as if he were a toy to be put in his latest collection set?

“They all work so hard. The number of ways that girl,” Jim points brazenly at Janine’s behind, “makes herself useful to me is just… Not just her. We’ve got a great crew. They’re all so…” Jim leers at John, grinning, “useful.”

John grimaces, torn between a smile at the sentiment and a frown at the delivery, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“You told your manager yet, John? Oh God, I want to see his face when you tell him. Can I be there?”

In the background of Greg’s amateurish emceeing and Irene and Mycroft’s stage-wide tug-of-war and Philip settling at a table and then turning back to glare at John and the photographer, John finds some semblance of good mood returning to him. Here’s a chance at escape. Both from Jim and the thought of how he’s going to break the news to Sherlock. Sherlock, who is nowhere to be seen and isn’t answering John’s calls.

“Yeah, I’ll just tell him and come back.”

And before Jim can react, John bolts out of there to join Philip at his table.

* * *

Camera cuts to John pulling up a chair beside Philip. Philip grits his teeth.

“This is a surprise, Philip.”

“Cut it out, John! I know you paid the photographer to take pictures of you all evening so that you can taunt me.”

John represses a smirk, glancing at the photographer, “Who, Lydia?”

“Yes,_ Lydia._ Call it off. We both know I’m the better salesman, and I’ve got nine plaques sitting in my TV cabinet that attest to it. What do you have, John?”

John lets out a snicker, “Oh gee, Philip, that’s not really the attitude I expect from an award winner.”

Philip glances up at John; arching his eyebrows to hide his bewilderment. John gives a shrug, and Philip simply gapes at him, harassed at having his line quoted back at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I,” John enunciates each word for maximum dramatic effect, “am declining the award.”

Philip.exe goes offline at once. John almost smiles, but it fades away, unable to keep Philip tortured about it anymore. This is the last prank he will ever play on Philip. Well, it’s not so much a prank as a parting gift but, at this point of time, even getting rid of Philip Anderson—his foil of three years and a giant pain in the arse_—_is a heavy price to be paid for Jim Moriarty’s leadership.

“Awards are stupid, and you’d deserve it more than me any day. You’ve been here thrice as long as I have and work two hours more than me on any given day.”

Philip gulps, realisation finally dawning on him. This is real. This is actually happening. John’s voice is a little heavy, which he tries to get rid of with a well-concealed harrumph. He exhales a thankful sigh, relieved that Philip’s complete blankness is preventing him from seeing through John’s emotional state.

* * *

Camera cuts to John at a corner, peering down at the ground to gather his thoughts. He sucks in his breath, gathering himself, and then dials Sherlock’s number on his phone. It goes to his voicemail. John lets out a groan.

“Hey, Sherlock. It’s me. Again,” he forces in another lungful of air, “I... uh, I planned something fun here. At the convention hall. With Philip. You do know you’re supposed to be here, right? Call me when you get this... Shit!” He peers into his mobile, closing it with a muted _thud_, “His inbox is full... I shouldn’t leave him these many voicemails… Not that I’ve left many…”

* * *

Camera cuts back to John and Philip.

“You’re gonna… decline it?”

“Yes,” John nods thoughtfully, to show Philip that he is, for the last time, leaving with a prank, not aimed at Philip, but executed_ with_ Philip. “I will go up there, I will turn it down on the stage, and I will give the entire upper management of H&H,” at this point, he glances back at Jim Moriarty surreptitiously, “a big fuck-you. How about that?”

Philip continues gaping at him as if he has just escaped the blast radius of dynamite.

“I intend to go to the podium,” John keeps going, empowered by the sudden rise of antiestablishment sentiment within, “and talk about how stupid awards are and how they’re superficial and meaningless.”

“That,” Philip finally manages to utter, “sounds dangerous and stupid.”

John chuckles in such a high-pitched, drunken manner that the people around him begin to fear for his sanity, “Oh come on, Philip Anderson, don’t be such a wuss!”

Predictably, Philip’s eyes narrow. “Wuss? Okay, well I’ll do you one better. I’ll deliver the fuck-you speech.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in a solitary corner from Philip, beaming triumphantly.

“When in doubt, call Philip ‘wuss’, and he folds.”

His smile drops a little, and he glances at his watch.

“I really wish Sherlock was here...” he casts a keen gaze around the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of raven curls and silver, penetrating eyes, “Where _is_ Sherlock? Why isn’t he picking up my calls?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock approaching Henry’s house. It’s a white-and-oatmeal coloured terrace house, guarded by a brick border the height of a toddler with a little wrought-iron gate. Colourful shrubbery expertly hides the garbage bin from sight, and an electric pole stands guard right above the entrance, ready to shoot bolts of vengeance down on the ill-intentioned. Sherlock swings past the gate, knocking on the front door with the confidence of a tax auditor. Remembering the folders he’s brought with himself in his leather bag, Sherlock takes them out, ready to shove the power of graphs and charts under Henry’s nose should the latter appear armed.

We film from a safe distance, from Sherlock’s car, still able to hear the audio from Sherlock via his collar mic. A couple of other onlookers have noticed us, and while we try to keep the entire filming operation discreet, the protruding boom mic isn’t aiding our innocence at the moment.

The door to Henry’s house opens, and out pops Henry already in a plaid dressing gown and pyjamas. It’s only been a few hours; yet, he’s already assumed the quintessential unemployed-youth look. He turns on the front door light, finding himself squinting at Sherlock.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

* * *

Camera cuts to the remaining camera crew inside Sherlock’s car. The cold chips away at our patience, the dark heightening our fear of being mugged or worse, being reported for filming without a permit.

From a distance, we see a couple of punks wearing beanies and riding bikes: just that age when one first learns the power of juvenile violence without consequences while hiding behind pink, chubby, innocent faces. And, just when we think we’re in the clear, those kids advance onto us, peering at us through their great, drab, beetle-like eyes.

We are three. They are six. Sure, we are adults. But, will that help?

“Oi! You making films around here?” A particularly outgoing one asks. As always, the leader of the pack keeps his distance for the moment; he’d only jump in when required to amp up the turmoil. They try and sound like they’re genuinely curious, but a couple of others in the pack of six keep poking the boom mic or sizing up the appearance of a strange film crew in their neighbourhood in a way meant to aggravate us.

We answer as calmly and honestly as we can. We tell the children it’s a documentary, fully expecting them not to grasp the concept—just hazards of the job. Or, hazards of following Sherlock around London.

“Like the ones on Discovery Channel?” Another asks.

“About this shitty neighbourhood?” Another kid pipes in, knocking on the camera lens. We tell them to get out of our way because we’re filming Sherlock and Henry’s exchange, but no avail.

* * *

“You lost your job, Henry,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, “I’m here to correct your situation. All is not lost yet, and it’s still up to us to prevent your imminent demise!”

Henry looks at Sherlock as if the latter’s gone barmy, “What?!”

“I realise that the company may have put you in a dire financial situation, so I took the liberty to draw up some charts and figures for you. Here,” Sherlock hands Henry the first of the eleven folders, “I got a hold on your childcare needs, your essentials and a rough budget outline so we can finetune it to perfection. Now, I only had an hour; that’s why it is so rough. If I had another hour or two, I’d have produced much more satisfactory results. And here,” he pulls another folder out, “are some recommendations. For example, you could start by selling this house and moving to a smaller one outside London. I did some research, and real estate in Milton Keynes is quite cheap.”

Henry still can’t comprehend what’s happening. “What?”

“And here is an accounting of your non-essentials. I took me a while and some shady scourging around the internet, but I was able to gain access to your various shopping accounts and purchases—”

“How?”

“—and draw up a rough estimate of your non-essential expenditure, and you can cut down all of this comfort. For instance, have you ever reflected on how much butter and ice cream your family consumes in a month? I highly recommend refusing your children ice cream and relinquishing control of your household budget to me in order to save yourselves from financial ruin.”

“What?” Henry repeats like a broken record.

“Honey!” comes a woman’s voice from inside Henry’s voice, “Who is it?”

“By the way,” Sherlock glances up at the outer walls of the house, “you’ve got damp. I can also make out some termite damage in your crawl space.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock’s car. From a distance, we see Sherlock in discussion with Henry that is growing more and more animated by the second. Meanwhile, we’re not yet rid of the neighbourhood kids. We try our best. We explain, in good faith, our professions, our current assignment, our...

“Why d’you talk like that, clean shirt?”

‘Clean Shirt’? What does that mean? That’s supposed to be good, right?

“How do you get that shirt so clean, mate?”

Another actively pulls at the sensitive boom mic, “What’s this do, mate?”

A struggle breaks out, out of nowhere. Strangled calls of ‘prick’ and ‘paedo’ and ‘psycho’ ensue as we hold on to the boom mic pole and, in our confusion, almost hits the kid tugging at it in his gut. More swear words and calls of ‘paedo’ erupt as the kid drops to the asphalt, clutching his stomach like dear life. This is probably the escalation the kids were looking for: one final blowout for the evening. And it doesn’t help that this time, the scuffle and the fake crying catches adult attention.

“Darren? You alright?” The very same lady who had been walking her dog and frowning at our filming equipment comes around—just the person we needed for the intervention. She glances at our car, at the dark corner it has been parked in, and immediately suspects we’re somehow precisely what a group of prepubescent children are claiming we are. The kids cease their dispute as the lady helps the kid up, and nearly sets her dog loose on Sherlock’s car.

“Are you guys…” the dog lady glances at the car packed with recording equipment, “Are you folks filming here?”

We reply in the affirmative.

“Do you have a permit to film?”

We do not, but we do not reply in negative. We hope to keep ourselves sufficiently in the vague so that we can bolt once Sherlock returns to the car. We would have fled, but Sherlock has taken the car keys with him.

“This is a residential neighbourhood. You can’t film here without permission. You’re already harassing these children.”

We nearly beg the dog lady not to call the police. We are operating on a low budget. We have minimal insurance. But, as always, reason is butchered at the altar of fearmongering.

The squabble is beginning to gather attention. Near the church, we see some folks opening pointing at us, and the road—mostly deserted except for the children and the lady walking her dog—is filling up with people emerging out of nowhere. At Henry’s house, Sherlock, woefully ignorant of our plight, keeps waving his arms at Henry, just as Henry stares at him blankly, aghast at the unexpected doorstep appearance.

“Last spring, one of those film trucks nearly ran over a dog,” the dog lady informs us in particularly dulcet tones, “If you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

“Maggie!” There’s a voice from another corner, and the dog lady—presumably called Maggie—glances over to see who has called her.

“Oh, hey, Mr Graves!”

“Is that another of ‘em tabloid film crews?” The speaker is an elderly gentleman taking out his garbage. We deny, but we are overwhelmingly ignored.

“Looks like it!” Maggie-the-dog-lady bestows upon us the most judgmental look she can manage, “These heartless people will never let it go!”

“You stay there! I think I just saw one of ’em bobbies patrolling.”

* * *

“Is this...” Henry glances past Sherlock’s shoulders, “really happening? Are you... actually...?”

“Here?” Sherlock supplies automatically, “Yes. Why would you think you’re hallucinating?”

Henry staggers backwards, unable to make head and tails out of the situation. After all, what do you say when the person who’s fired you hours ago shows up at your doorstep with unsolicited financial advice?

“I’m not...”

“If you’re clever enough and plan for every possibility, we can thwart the will of the universe in fifteen minutes, Henry. None of us is powerless,” Sherlock declares loftily, “May I come in?”

It is at this point that Henry regains his comprehension abilities, “Uh... no?”

“No?”

“Yes. No!”

“Well, which is it? Yes, or no? I’m shivering out here!”

“NO!” Henry bellows, and winces, looking back as if to ensure no one in the neighbourhood or his family hears their scuffle. He wraps his dressing gown around himself and steps out, gasping as the cold hits him, “You need to leave. I don’t want my kids exposed to...” he does a sweep of Sherlock from head to toe, trying to come up with an adjective, “You need to go.”

Sherlock frowns, genuinely bamboozled. “Well, that’s rude.”

“Oh?” Henry chuckles humourlessly, glancing over Sherlock’s shoulder, “Rude, eh...? Wait, is that...” his gaze latches onto Sherlock’s red Sebring parked opposite, “Is that the camera crew?!”

“Uh...”

“Are you kidding me?” Henry barks, “You had the gall to fire me, and now you bring the cameras to my home... MY HOUSE... to-to... f-for the showdown?!”

“Henry, I have only operated with your best interests in mind,” Sherlock shoots back, his scaredy-cat eyes darting from Henry’s rapid transformation to the boom mics sticking out of the window of Sherlock’s car.

“Oh, yes. I suppose ‘thwarting the will of the universe in fifteen minutes’ is in my best interests!”

“I’m prepared to barricade myself in your house until you hear me out!”

Henry shoots Sherlock the most venomous look he can gather, “Leave, or I will call the police on you!”

“No, Henry Dempsey,” Sherlock flashes the most charming _will-you-do-this-just-for-me_ smile in his arsenal, the sort of smile that makes helium balloons pop and float away in bliss into vast starry skies, “You won’t.”

Henry’s eyes narrow, and he pokes his head back into his house, “Honey! Call the police! There’s a madman at our door.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls open the main budget. “Right. Now that we’ve washed our hands off the niceties, can we work around your problem?”

“They’ve already had calls, honey. There’s already a bobby on the scene,” Henry’s wife yells back, and Henry throws Sherlock a smirk as if to say ‘see, I _was_ serious’.

“I don’t see the problem!” Sherlock whines, “I just want to control the nitty-gritties of your household budget for the foreseeable future! What is so wrong with that? I am sure it will prove to be a fascinating pr... Oh!”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, fight-or-flight instincts taking over him as realisation hits. He clips the folders shut in his leather briefcase and squeaks a hurried bye before dashing back to his car.

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg backstage at Awards Night, slightly spooked. On the stage, Anne is holding up her end of the emceeing, while Greg barks into the phone well out of hearing range.

“Hello…? Yes, this is Alyssa’s father… What?! Are you…? Why would…? Didn’t her grandma…?”

Greg lets out a groan, massaging his temples, “Oh, God. Okay, I’m—I’m coming!“ He checks his watch and lets out another massive groan, “Should take me half an hour, maximum… Yes, thank you and sorry for the trouble.”

With a last look at his ex-wife, Greg begins dialling for his mother-in-law. The phone rings but soon goes to voicemail. He glances up at the camera, miserable.

“I really wanted to do this.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg and Mycroft backstage, hiding from a tide of applause that sweeps through the convention hall.

“I can’t emcee tonight,” Greg explains feverishly, hesitating at difficult moments, “It’s… It’s my daughter. She’s still stuck at school, and no one’s come to pick her up.”

Mycroft’s mouth hangs open slightly, somewhat aghast. Greg getting along with his ex-wife, Irene Adler’s witless award and now Greg bailing on an event that should’ve allowed them to ‘mingle’? Not a good day.

“Look, it’s...” Greg notices Mycroft’s expression and retrieves a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, “It’s easy; you can handle it. If you wish to, you can look up the script.”

“Ask your…” Mycroft rethinks his words, choosing a more diplomatic tone, “I believe Anne can cover your half.”

Greg frowns in bewilderment. Is Mycroft really asking him to choose between emceeing and his daughter?

“I’d have asked Anne to do the emceeing, but both of us have to go. Completely unplanned family emergency. It’s just…” Greg lowers his voice, as if the world has, for one moment, shrunk itself to just Mycroft and Greg, “You know I wouldn’t, right? I wouldn’t just abandon… you.”

Mycroft eyes Anne sideways, gears in his head spinning, turbo-jetting, tornado-ing. The only way things are allowed to go is Mycroft’s way.

“You do have another way, you know.”

Greg frowns, not sure what Mycroft means.

“You don’t need Anne and her mother for everything, Gregory,” Mycroft clarifies, “and this is your chance to make your daughter realise that.”

Greg gulps, slightly spooked. He’s given Mycroft no indication that his mother-in-law is involved and yet Mycroft has magically gleaned that information.

“I... I still need another person. Anne’s mother is meticulous,” Greg admits at last, “She wouldn’t forget to pick up Alyssa unless she got into some trouble…”

Mycroft pretends to look around seriously: pretentious people way below Mycroft’s level, Irene Adler charming away and grinning away at the event, just too many humans versus the possibility of Greg going off with his ex-wife into the sunset. The cost-benefit analysis doesn’t really make a favourable case for Mycroft staying behind in the comfortable, warm convention hall.

“I believe I can help. My assistant can search for Anne’s mother while we pick up your daughter.”

Greg blinks, bemused. “We?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Mycroft at a remote corner.

“I don’t like to get involved in others’ business… but yes, Gregory definitely should’ve informed his ex-wife; she’s the mother, after all.”

Mycroft follows it up with the slyest smirk in the history of the universe.

“But, for Gregory Lestrade, one supreme need trumps all: to be a hero to his daughter. To fulfil that need, he’ll go to any lengths. And he doesn’t need his ex-wife to accompany him while he’s doing that, does he?”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Mycroft and Greg. Mycroft’s brain goes into overdrive, trying to come up with an excuse really fast until his gaze falls on someone in the crowd quietly sipping their wine.

“Yes. _We,” _Mycroft declares, “You’ve had alcohol.”

Greg’s eyes narrow. “So have you.”

Mycroft chuckles pedantically, “Oh, you believe I drive my own car?”

Greg lets out a disbelieving snort, “I’ve been emceeing this whole time.”

“Oh, believe me when I say whatever you’ve consumed will take two more hours to wear off,” Mycroft whips out his phone, dialling away, “I’ll call the car; meanwhile, you should find a replacement for yourself.”

“A replacement?”

“Yes. What do you think Anne will ask when you tell her you can’t stay here anymore?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John approaching the backstage, somewhat nonplussed about why he’s being called in. He spots Greg on the phone and makes a beeline for him.

“Hey, mate,” John greets him with a slight smile, “What’d you need to see me for?”

Greg nearly chokes on his sigh of relief, “Hey, John! Ah, thank god you came...”

That puts John right on red alert, “Why...?”

“There’s an emergency,” Greg launches into a dizzyingly-fast string of rapid requests, “Alyssa needs to be picked up from school, and her grandma’s not picking up her phone… I have to go. I can’t do the emceeing!”

John’s relaxed manner wilts away. “Wait, who—?”

“Please, please, can you cover the emceeing for me? I have asked everyone I could, but they’re all doing something or the other, and…” Greg leans in, frowning, “What the hell is wrong with your eyes? Can you do something about those dark circles before you go on stage?”

“Wait, I don’t—?”

“Look, everyone else I know is either insane or already drunk. Please, John,” Greg is an inch away from turning into a begging mess of a man, “Can you do me this one favour? Ugh, Mycroft’s calling me. I gotta get going! Don’t tell Anne. Tell her I’m sick or something!”

John recovers from his stunned state, “You have seen me in front of large groups of people, right, Greg?”

“Yes, you’re good at crowds!”

“Sure,“ John nearly seethes through clenched teeth, “but I usually rub them up the wrong way…”

“Look, you don’t have to worry,” Greg thrusts a sheet of paper into John’s care, “Here’s the order of events. It’s basically a script. It’s no big deal. Just read out the names, sass the audience, ignore Anne, make one of those clever jokes you and Sherlock come up with all the time, and break a leg!”

He grabs onto John’s shoulders fiercely, as if almost coercing him into accepting the ordeal. John nods, a little flummoxed.

“Uh, okay.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John in a corner, backstage. Greg is long gone, and John looks at the watch. In two minutes, Anne will descend from the stage to find her ex-husband missing, and John will have to go on and emcee the whole event impromptu.

“Well, I wasn't going to agree to this, but then I stole a peek at the ‘script’. Here’s an excerpt: _‘Why was the horse so happy? Because he lived in a stable environment’_,” John shakes his head as he peruses the script. “It’s riddled with dad jokes. That stable environment one is for the HR award… I don’t even… Oh, here’s another dad joke about a dad joke: _‘When does a joke turn into a dad joke? When it becomes apparent’..._ I think I’d be doing Greg—and everybody else—a favour by never telling these, so…”

John spots another joke and nearly laughs before deciding it is terrible and should never be heard by human ears.

“Maybe emceeing will go just the way it went last time… when I was still in school, and made jokes about Bill Patterson on the stage and got a lot of laughs… and then, he and a group of five boys nearly broke my leg,” John grows more dubious, “… And then Sharon Hunter turned me down after I told her I wanted to kiss her.”

* * *

Camera cuts back to Greg and John; John reads through the jokes, arching a doubtful eyebrow.

“Are you sure you want me to tell these... jokes...?”

“Yes, yes, thank you! Thank you _so_ much, John,” at this point, Greg looks like he’ll even sell John his soul, “I owe you one, big time! Tell you what, I will ignore the next complaint Philip files against you. On the house!”

John’s smile fades; there isn’t going to be a ‘next complaint’.

* * *

Camera cuts to John talking to the camera backstage, his voice doubtful.

“Yeah sure, I’ll do Greg this favour. He’s an okay bloke, so this is a sort of parting gift for him too…”

He glimpses at the script and decides to chuck the jokes and just wing it.

“Should I leave Ferndale? Janine seemed fine, but with someone like Jim Moriarty at work… I don’t know…”

* * *

“A crew of three, you say?”

At Addiscombe, two police officers have arrived upon Sherlock and the camera crew, in the process of verifying any heated claims by neighbourhood residents with supreme detachment. Sherlock is incessantly complaining about the presence of the forces of law, and quite a crowd has assembled around Sherlock’s car, each of them trying to peek into the “shady” business of documentary-filming and chasing after ex-employees. The rascals masquerading as prepubescent kids are long gone, replaced by a barrage of disapproving adults.

“Steve, come on! There was no illegal activity here!“ Sherlock bemoans, pointing at Henry’s house, “Since when is trespassing a crime?”

“Lay off, will ya, Sherlock?” Steve, the lanky pimply-faced beat cop, snaps at him and goes back to dutifully covering every dramatic testimony, “Still teaching the police how to do their jobs. Can’t believe you haven’t changed one bit.”

Sherlock bristles at the rebuke and goes back to glaring at each eager witness. The police officer keeps noting down every little event diligently as if this is his last shot at some actual police work. He glances up at Sherlock, at the repeated, thick billowing clouds of condensation leaving Sherlock’s pompous mouth each time he heaves an exaggerated sigh.

“Sergeant Steve and I go way back,” Sherlock explains tiredly to the camera, “During my... time on the streets, Steve was a constable, one of my regular ‘patrons’. Almost every beat cop in Greater London is.”

“Not a patron!” Steve corrects, desperation evident in his voice, “He made me chase after him while he wandered about high on the streets.”

Sherlock sniffs the air, “Since when did you develop a chronic body odour problem, Sergeant?”

The cop’s constant writing stutters to a stop. “W-wait—how?”

“You’re wearing prescription-strength deodorant. It’s a recent development, possibly due to newfound stress. Which reminds me, congratulations on your promotion. Shame they transferred you to Croydon, though.”

“Okay, let’s see the full picture,” Sergeant Steve grits his teeth through Sherlock’s mixed messages, “Parking illegally, filming without a permit, assault on a minor, harassing a Mr Henry Dempsey of 323, Lower Addiscombe Road, general disruption and nuisance to neighbourhood—”

“Steve used to burn those doughnuts chasing after me,” Sherlock turns back to the camera, “I am the reason Steve even has a sex life...” Sherlock sniffs the air once again, “Well, he once did.”

“One more word,” Steve warns preoccupiedly, “and I will add ’assault on a police officer’ to the charges and throw you in the back of my car too, cameras or not.”

“Oh?” Sherlock challenges, “On what charges?”

“I just... told you.”

Sherlock lets out a laugh, “Oh, those? I see. We have a philosophical difference about what constitutes a law, Sergeant.”

“You don’t want me to pull up your old rap sheet, do you, _Shezza?_ Now, go home. Or _I’ll_ get you home,” he adds, his voice just barely threatening. Sherlock’s face becomes ashen just for a moment before his expression hardens.

“There’s no legal basis for you to arrest all four of us. And I am entitled to talking, you know,” Sherlock points out loftily, “Unless talking is a crime now.”

“The cameras are running,” Steve drawls, “I’ll leave it to the judge. Remember Judge Murchison?”

Sherlock frowns. “No.”

“Well, he still remembers ya. So, shut up!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Henry on his front door.

“Calling the police on his arrogant arse? Sure feels good!”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg and Mycroft emerging from Mycroft sleek, black BMW company car. Greg carries his sleeping daughter bridal style while Mycroft cradles her violin case, both their brows wrinkled with worry. Mycroft shushes the cameras as they glide through the building’s lobby and into Greg’s flat on the fifth floor of the apartment complex.

Mycroft’s phone begins to ring, and he immediately excuses himself towards the lifts. Behind him, Greg mouths ‘just let yourself in’ as he twists the house keys in the keyhole, pushing the door with his shoulder to carry Alyssa in.

“Yes?” Mycroft whispers into the phone, “She’s in a hospital now...? Yes... Good God, that’s a list of... Oh, she first reached Alyssa’s school? In that condition...?” He lets out a silent wince, “All right, Andrea, keep an eye out. And let me know about any updates. Talk soon.”

Mycroft exhales in relief, pocketing his phone. Crisis averted. Greg’s daughter is safe at home and has faced nothing that some tea and chicken soup can’t fix. He turns around and lets out a breath, his eyes x-raying the cold, metallic-looking entrance door to Greg’s flat. He presses his lips together, fisting and stretching his palms in anticipation. He’s mere steps away from where Greg Lestrade lives, and now he gets to see it with his own eyes. Of all the ways Mycroft Holmes probably imagined the Awards Night to go, finding himself in Greg Lestrade’s flat is not one of them.

Mycroft gently pushes the door to his flat open, taking in every detail.

It’s an unimpressive, messy flat. A generously long hallway leads to a modest kitchen to the right and a living room and bedrooms to the left. The flat is overrun by Alyssa’s things like weeds in a garden. A bland, uninspired garden. Each shade, colour and fabric is muted and understated. As if someone has captured every bit of personality the flat once had and chained it away, beaten into submission through years of self-restraint.

Mycroft’s eyes dart to every crevice, cataloguing and putting together bits of information about Greg Lestrade’s home life, habits and priorities. But he, with his prim and proper shirt and tie dimple, doesn’t seem to find the prospect as wondrous anymore. The curtain has been lifted, and the wizard of Oz is just a common man living a chaotic life.

The sound of boots scraping against the hardwood reaches Mycroft, and he proceeds to follow it, dodging tossed socks, books, toys and folders, and Alyssa’s schoolbag.

The guest bedroom is smaller, even more chaotic, and painted an incredibly juvenile shade of green—quite possibly Alyssa’s favourite colour. Legos and soft toys litter the room, interspersed with miscellaneous child accessories, bags and clips. Greg’s eyes flicker towards the door as Mycroft’s heavy footsteps approach.

“Your mother-in-law—” Mycroft begins, but Greg indicates him to be silent as he takes off Alyssa’s shoes and covers her sleeping form with a duvet, tucking her in.

Mycroft looks around at the messy flat with distaste; it’s a cage compared to the Holmes’ grand old townhouse. He beats a silent retreat, almost stepping on a rubber Tweety Bird that lets out a loud quack, making Alyssa stir. Mycroft nearly jumps, startled at the alien feeling underneath his shoes as Greg glares at him, hissing at him to be quiet.

Mycroft frowns in response; he’s helped the man, and this is the thanks he gets? Greg’s expression softens to an apologetic one before he makes a chugging motion, jerking his head towards the kitchen.

* * *

Camera cuts to Awards Night backstage. Anne descends from the stage only to find that John has replaced her ex-husband.

“Wait, who’re you? Where’s Greg?”

John manages the most uncomfortable coughing ever, “I’m John. Greg told me to... uh, tell you that he’s had an emergency, so... I’ll be taking over his duties.”

Anne puts her hands on her hips, arching an eyebrow, “Really? He’s ‘had an emergency’?”

“Yeah, he handed me a script, and uh...” John coughs once again, trying to get his shit together while not explicitly lying at the same time, “and he’s trusted me to do this. And he told me to tell you not to worry. He’s okay—”

“Oh, I’m not worried!” Anne lets out a scoff, “Typical Greg. Always bailing.”

John forces a polite smile, choosing not to comment on that. “Looks like it’s my turn on the stage, innit?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg’s apartment. Mycroft has found two glasses and some rosé and relocated to the semi-darkened living room sofa as if it were the only place in the entire flat worthy of seating him. He glances at the sad, clinically white kitchen and the old refrigerator that accompanies it and lets out a shudder, turning his attention to admire the wine.

Mycroft is fascinated but troubled by the house. Fascinated because_ ‘this is where Greg Lestrade lives’. _Troubled because_ ‘this is where Greg Lestrade lives?’. _He glances at previous day’s empty takeout containers in a corner and grimaces, as if asking himself what he’s even doing with Greg Lestrade of all people, or why he’s even attracted to Greg Lestrade.

“Hey.”

Hearing Greg’s gruff voice, Mycroft puts on a smile, and Greg joins him on the sofa, grabbing a glass to pour himself a drink too.

“Sorry, I took away your night of… whatever, networking, schmoozing, whatever it is you do... And, thank you.”

Mycroft sips his drink in acknowledgement. The stillness of the flat cocoons them in its bosom, detaching them from their responsibilities for just a little while. For one moment, they can both pretend that they’re only two men walking down life’s winding paths. Not a father, not a CEO.

“You should trust yourself more, Gregory,” Mycroft whispers, “You’re good at being a father.”

Greg smiles in resignation, “Kind of you to say that.”

“I mean it, really. If you can handle Sherlock, Alyssa must be an angel in comparison.”

That makes Greg grin widely. Mycroft steals a sidelong glance, unable to believe that he has just made Greg smile. The two men sit side-by-side in companionable silence, swallowed by near-darkness punctured by spidery lights from the windows outside. Only heavy breaths can be heard, and the ripe taste of expectation hangs in the space between them.

“He’s a good kid,” Greg murmurs at last, glancing up at Mycroft, “Sherlock, I mean.”

“I quite agree,” Mycroft smiles gently, “He’s become quite... functional. Though, if you ask Sherlock, he’ll take it as a sign of worry that I’m starting to think he’s not as childish and immature as he used to be.”

* * *

The situation between Sherlock and Sergeant-Steve-with-whom-he-has-a-long–history-of-chases-and-arrests keeps spiralling, with Sherlock refusing to shut up and the cop’s threats climbing in seriousness. Sergeant Steve records any evidence of wrongdoing, as sincere as a camp counsellor for toddlers, staving off Sherlock’s attempts at disrupting his duty. But Sherlock persists, with his string of lightning-fast deductions and comments and nostalgic remembrance of his days of running from police officers while high.

Until it gets too much. Until Sergeant Steve cracks and clicks his pen shut.

“Okay, that’s enough! Get in!”

Sherlock frowns as if that outcome were entirely unexpected. “What?!”

“I’m taking you to the station.”

“You’re...” Sherlock gapes at him, “You’re actually arresting me?”

“No, I’m giving this lady and these gentlemen a break from your yammering,” Sergeant Steve points to Maggie-the-dog-lady and few of the residents, “while you come over to the station.”

“But-but...” Sherlock splutters, “Why?”

“Uh... because, you’re irritating. On a cold Friday night when I’d rather be wrapped up inside a warm room with hot chocolate. We’ll continue this in there. You can get your car back later from the impound. Same with all this heavy camera and sound equipment; I’m going to need you all to turn this off. Your child-beating posse,” Steve appraises the camera crew from head to toe, groaning with irritation, “will follow in DeWitt’s car. How about that?”

* * *

Camera cuts to Anne on the phone backstage at Awards Night, scowling darkly. On the stage, John is holding up his end of the emceeing, while Anne presses her fingers into her eyes.

“Wait, wait, wait... mum... mum... no, slow down! You were... WHAT...? An accident... how?! Are you okay? Where’s Alyssa...? Oh God!” she almost lets out a sob, glancing around her, “Oh God! Then, where is she...? Wait, you went to the school...? What?! Greg picked her up...? But he’s... Oh...”

Her eyes dart to John leaving the podium, a sliver of his back visible from the backstage, and realisation strikes her. “You take care of yourself, mum. I will call Greg and pick you up in about an hour... Yeah, bye.”

Gritting her teeth, Anne goes through her phone, through the school’s and her mother’s numerous missed calls. As John makes his way down towards backstage after handing over the reins to a speaker, Anne marches up to meet him.

“Where is Greg?”

John maintains an admirably level expression in the face, “All I know is he had an emergency.”

Anne lets out a grunt, unable to break through his facial defences, “Okay. I see. I have to go to my daughter. You do the emceeing!”

And before John can even react or persuade Anne, she hightails it out of there, leaving John with both parts of the awardees’ list. He gapes at the camera, mouth hanging open in incredulity.

“Great! Now I get to do both. How fun.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Greg’s apartment.

“Would you...” Mycroft tries, with the hesitation of a little boy asking someone out for the first time, “would you... like a smoke?”

“Best not,” Greg is the first to retreat, “Alyssa can always tell.”

“Of course.”

“I’d love to, though,” Greg gulps, glancing down at Mycroft’s lips. He wets his own with a flash of his tongue, “I really would, but...”

For a moment, Greg rests one palm in the space separating his right knee from Mycroft’s left. Mycroft’s breathing quickens, and he leans forward a bit, his hand sliding down the knee about to meet Greg’s hand. Greg’s eyes threaten to droop close, and it’s precisely at that moment that Mycroft’s eyes fall on a mustard stain on the carpet. Like falling dominos, his eyes chase one incongruity to the other, baring just how ordinary and messy the flat is. What a departure Greg is from Mycroft’s orderly, organised life.

Almost immediately, the doorbell rings, like the clock striking twelve at the end of the ball. Mycroft withdraws with a smart cough, his eyes finally coming to rest on the cameras.

“Best not.”

Greg frowns, heaving himself off the sofa towards the main door. “Fucking hell? I’m sorry,” he turns to Mycroft, slightly disoriented on his feet, “I’ll just...”

He tries to come up with something but chooses just to shake his head and proceed towards the main door. As Mycroft heaves a relieved exhale, voices float in from the foyer. Loud, angry, feminine voices. Curiosity fills Mycroft and he tiptoes in the direction Greg has gone off to. Soon, demanding stomps thunder from the entrance hall, and Mycroft finds himself accosted by Anne. She halts to a confused stop, blinking at the sudden appearance.

“Mycroft? This is a surprise—”

“Will you stop shouting?” Greg hisses, pushing past both Anne and Mycroft, “You’re gonna wake Alyssa!”

Anne shoots Greg a deadly glare before stomping away towards the guest bedroom. Greg lets out an irritated grunt, resembling nothing like the calm, benign man who had almost kissed Mycroft. As Anne disappears into the flat, Greg turns around to glare at the silver-haired, scowling elderly lady left behind. There’s a cut on her forehead, and a bandage tied around her frail right hand.

“And you!” Greg nearly barks, “Happy now? What the hell happened to you anyway?”

Despite the harsh exclamations, Greg leans forward to examine her wounds, draping an arm around her, but she doesn’t drop the nasty expression. Mycroft looks from Greg to his ex-mother-in-law and their shouting row in growing distaste.

“That’s what you get for leaving me in the hospital!”

“What ‘hospital’?”

“Well, if you’d bothered to find out—”

“Excuse me, but I was a tad busy looking for my daughter—”

“My granddaughter!”

“—that_ you _abandoned, out in the cold and the dark!”

“To be fair,” Mycroft tries to intervene, “She_ did _have a minor incident.”

Greg frowns as if Mycroft has just betrayed him to the enemy, “What?!”

“Apologies,” Mycroft recoils from the noise and the drama, “I attempted to inform you, but...”

The mother-in-law shakes Greg off self-righteously, following her daughter into the flat. Greg lets out a groan, his face blotched and breath panting. He looks like he’d give his right hand to kick something down.

“Okay, alright. Yeah, don’t do that,” Greg calls after her well after she’s disappeared, “You’re gonna break the rest of your bones!”

Realising his outburst, he shoots Mycroft as apologetic look before grimacing and marching after them into Alyssa’s room. Left behind, Mycroft turns to the camera, face blanched in horror. What just happened? And how did the caring, considerate, well-mannered HR Mycroft has known for years transform into a raging, messy human with family drama about such a minor incident?

“Oh, dear lord. Where have I ended up?”

* * *

Camera cuts to John on the stage at Awards Night, which is nearing its end.

“... The recipients for Most Consistent Salesman are... hold your standing ovation, none other than Philip Anderson and Hen—” John corrects himself hastily, remembering the day’s events, “Philip Anderson from the Ferndale Branch!”

Applause breaks out, feverish and deafening, but whether out of congratulations for Philip or the fact that it’s the last award of the night before the bar opens again and dinner is served. John beams at Philip, urging him out of his seat, and Philip—despite being aware that this was going to happen—is still stunned into inaction by the sheer shock of the announcement. Despite years of irritating each other, near-unforgivable pranks and oneupmanship at work, John has indeed delivered on his promise, and now it’s Philip’s turn to make good on the one he’s made to John.

“And to present this award is Philip’s manager...” John casts a final gaze over the crowd for traces of Sherlock, “... Correction, his colleague, myself.”

Philip clambers onto the stage, bright lights illuminating his sallow complexion. His eyes shine in wonder, and even though he gets an award nearly every year, he looks like the five-year-old who has just won his first award for ‘fastest runner’ or some other inconsequential kindergarten thing. From Philip’s vantage point, the final chorus to ‘A Moment Like This’ by Leona Lewis might as well be playing in his ears.

John claps the hardest, clenching his jaws to stop himself from welling up upon seeing the naked emotion and unbridled passion in Philip’s eyes. But the feeling gives away to surprise almost immediately as Philip grabs John and launches into a bear hug right there on the stage in front of the whole company.

“Ah, put ’er there,” John pats Philip on the back, almost scared that Philip might just break into tears in his arms. Philip clings on, despite John’s stilted chuckles and uncomfortable looks, despite John’s efforts at pushing him away when he latches on for too long. Finally, John’s microphone manages to coax Philip into letting go, but not before he launches into a heartfelt speech.

“This award meant so much to me, till a couple of hours when a good friend explained that awards were crap and shouldn’t be cared about too much,” Philip heaves a loud, long breath before continuing. “Every award, from the smallest trophy to the Nobel prize is nothing more than a superficial attempt at institutional gratification, and if one must suitably reward an employee for their good work, it must be in bonuses and hard cash, not stupid plaques.”

Philip turns to John, “My good friend, John, made me realise that.”

John’s eyes dart to the suddenly silent, bemused crowd, shaking his head to whoever would care about his opinion. There’s no clapping anymore, only whispers. Some scandalised, some titters, rest confused.

“So, I will come clean. John,” Philip beams at him, “It is you who truly deserves this award. I stole AIG from you. I tried to steal KB Securities from you, and for that I’m sorry. Sometimes, you can be complacent about your job, you always come to the office last, and you lack direction, but your positive qualities are unmatched by most people I’ve met. I never told you this, but even on the worst of days—such as when you and Sherlock spent an hour removing all the screws from my office chair—I felt honoured to be working alongside one of the best and the kindest and the most conscientious of men I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, no, no...” John tries to prompt, grimacing, but Philip, ignoring away blissfully, walks to the table where the plaque stands, and presents it to John. We zoom onto the plaque. It reads ‘John H. Watson’.

“So, I would like to present this year’s award for Most Consistent Salesman to John Watson, also from the Ferndale branch!”

Applause ensues again, but this time it is scattered and confused and awkward. John smiles uncomfortably, pushing the plaque back towards Philip.

“I don’t want the damn thing, Philip. Just take it.”

“You deserve it, John,” Philip, who has never looked more earnest and happy-sad, shoves the plaque back into John’s arms, “It’s been a pleasure working with you. Here’s to many more years—”

“No, no... really—”

“John, you deserve it—”

“But I don’t want it.”

“But you won it, you should—”

“People are watching, Philip.”

“It’s okay, John—”

“Can someone please just take it?” Mrs Hudson hisses from the backstage, pointing at her wristwatch. Philip and John both cough in unison, the plaque finally having landed in Philip’s grip. John shoots the audience the most placating smile he can manage, and Philip lets out a shuddery exhale.

“Okay, I’ll take it. It’s John’s generosity that gave me this award. I would also like to thank my girlfriend, Sally Donovan, for being my rock throughout my career.”

“Not your girlfriend!” comes a yell that sounds like Sally’s boyfriend two tables away from the table, along with assorted cries of “Get off the stage!” and “it’s already eight-thirty”. John almost ducks his head in an involuntary groan.

“Oh yeah, Brandon?” Philip scrunches his face up indignantly, still high from the win and just one insult away from giving everyone the finger, “Then why am I making out with her every day?”

“Okay, mate,” John tiptoes up to Philip, “don’t milk it—”

But Philip shakes John off just as Brandon rises in his table, next to a Sally trying to pull him back down into his seat. The calls of “get off” continue and Philip who, for the first time, seems to heed the advice shouted at him, drops the mic on the table and steps down from the podium, resolutely striding towards Sally’s table. The mic rolls down and falls onto the stage, and feedback rips through the hall, earsplitting and making almost everyone double over wincing at their tables.

Amidst the confusion, Philip grabs a seated Sally by the waist, forcing her into a horrific distortion of the Victory Kiss in Times Square, without any consideration for where he is or what he is doing or the fact that he just straight up forced himself on someone without their permission. Sally freezes in panic, and so does everyone around her, including her boyfriend Brandon who simply stares in shock. It’s only when gasps start emerging from the people around that Sally finally finds the strength to push Philip off, gasping and hyperventilating.

“What the—?!”

Before Sally can finish her horrified exclamation, Brandon belatedly pounces onto Philip with a growl, narrowly missing his nose and causing an even louder gasp to erupt from the spectators around. Philip, significantly smaller than Brandon but equally vociferous, snarls back, hair askew and the skin on his cheekbones breaking where Brandon has just punched him.

From a corner, there’s a shocked cry from Peter. Camera pans to Peter as he hurries through the tables towards his cousin.

“Philip!” Peter’s hiss cuts through the scandalised air like a knife.

Philip stupidly takes another step forward, still not willing to believe that he has done anything wrong, and Brandon copies him, hissing threateningly. Philip grits his teeth in response, balling up his wrists in the expectation of a fight. His face is an ugly, splotchy scarlet, looking like he can tear through a hundred men between himself and Sally.

“You don’t deserve her!” Philip barks, wheezing, his eyes welling up, “You’re not good for her!”

“Philip!” Peter finally arrives at Philip’s side, grabbing him by the elbow, “Stop it, man!”

“Leave,” Brandon murmurs menacingly, “Leave. Before I break your nose this time.”

As Peter begins to nudge Philip out of the scene, Sally turns to glance at the camera, stunned and horrified. Her eyes dart around, to all the people who failed to come to her rescue, only offering halfhearted sympathy through wide eyes and petrified figures.   
  


* * *

Camera cuts to the living room in Greg’s flat. The door to Alyssa’s room is closed, blocking her from fighting, screeching adults in the living room: a pacing Greg on one end of the spectrum, and a livid Anne and her mother on the other, and an unwilling, frozen-with-shock-and-thickly-veiled-disgust Mycroft on the sofa, who hangs around like an awkward umpire.

“Let’s not do this in front of the cameras, Anne,” Greg changes tactics, trying to appear as the reasonable, benevolent party. Anne bares her teeth in response.

“Why? Do you have something to hide?”

“You know, I have really tried!” Greg snarls, dropping the act almost immediately, “But you just don’t want to listen to reason!”

It’s at this most opportune moment that Mycroft’s phone rings, a reprieve from the drama which brings the shouting to a temporary halt. Anne, Greg and Anne’s mother all turn around to stare at Mycroft, who heaves a sigh of relief, uncaring about putting up with appearances.

“Excuse me, Anne. Gregory,” he gives them both pointed looks before escaping into the kitchen to take the call, “Hello...?”

In the background, the chiding continues against the white noise of crap telly: _‘Going off with my daughter’_ and _‘She’s my daughter too!’_ and _‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me...’._

Mycroft’s face scrunches up in confusion before he catches a glimpse of his phone screen, “Sherlock? You sound like you’re in a police station. What did you do...? So, _they_ got arrested, but not you...? Excuse me, but I find that impossible to believe...”

More _‘And what about filling her head with all this filth about me!’_ and_ ‘It’s not filth if it’s true’_ and _‘how dare you!’_.

“Oh, good gracious, Sherlock, not again! Which police station...? My mummy’s butt? Really? That’s your mummy too... Yes, it is... Stop trying to convince me I’m adopted... You’re adopted!”

The barking in the living room quietens a bit, and Mycroft realises that his aggravated yells at Sherlock have reached the Lestrades. Mycroft crouches behind the refrigerator, not keen on sounding like he’s losing cool in front of two of his employees.

“Fine, stay put. I’m on my way... and for God’s sake, go easy on the constables.”

Disconnecting the call, Mycroft mouths a silent thanks to nobody in particular. As furtive as a fox, Mycroft fires off two texts before assuming his fullest height and marching into the living room to collect his coat and umbrella.

“Well, everyone,” he begins without any regard for whoever had been delivering their passionate argument, “this has been a thoroughly... extraordinary evening, but I must leave now. Anne, I will see you on Monday. Gregory, I will...” Mycroft tries to come up with a similar plan but fails, “Nevermind. Good night and have a lovely weekend.”

Without another word of explanation, Mycroft flees the scene, prompting Greg to chase after him into the hallway.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft stops and turns, towering over Greg with an uber-calm expression.

“Yes?”

“I am so sorry,” Greg mutters, bowing his head low but keeping his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s unreadable expression, “I never meant for you to get caught up in all of this... stupid personal stuff—”

“It’s okay,” Mycroft stretches his lips insincerely, “It was... illuminating.”

Greg jerks backwards a bit, trying to unravel the multitude of meanings Mycroft has weaved into that single word. Mycroft nods smartly before turning on his heel and out of Greg’s flat. With almost mechanical movements, he presses the lift call button, waiting patiently and keeping his composure till he hears the _thud_ of the door to Greg’s flat. With an exhale, the stiffness of his shoulders drains away as he marches into the lift purposefully, letting himself be transported away from the mess and the clutter.

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock and Mycroft emerging from Croydon Custody centre. Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck, shivering a little at the gales while Mycroft, on his phone, walks in such a self-assured way as if no weather, no matter how tormenting, can ever touch him.

“I’ve phoned our lawyer,” Mycroft cuts his phone, glad to be back in his element after the disastrous evening with the Lestrades, “Seeing as it’s a Friday, those three camera crew members will have to spend the weekend in detention. Bail will be available first thing Monday.”

“As expected,” Sherlock growls. Mycroft frowns at the extra bit of edge to Sherlock’s tone. He glances at the camera crew, ones that have been travelling with Mycroft, before leaning in to whisper to Sherlock.

“Any chance they’re in detention because of you?”

“Oh, of course!” Sherlock snarls, “Always Sherlock’s fault, is it?”

Mycroft raises a pointed eyebrow. Sherlock concedes.

“A bit. Some nasty kid cried wolf because of their camera equipment... Which reminds me, they took my car away. To the impound.”

Mycroft heaves a sigh, but it isn’t as exasperated as one would expect it to be. On the contrary, Mycroft seems almost relieved to be returning to the safest, the most familiar, the oldest relationship dynamic he’s had. Mycroft’s car comes around, and both brothers slide inside in sync.

“I’m sure the lawyer will figure it out,” Mycroft waves a dismissive hand, “My only concern is you.”

“Of course,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Everything else is just... collateral damage.”

That causes Mycroft to turn on Sherlock, all dark scowls and defensive glares, “I expected some gratitude. As always, it’s meaningless to expect anything from you.”

Sherlock grits his teeth, “My first day in Ferndale. I trust you remember what I said to you about collateral damage?”

“Baker Street,” Mycroft says flatly to the driver before stopping to ponder over Sherlock’s words, “Yes. You said I was entrusting the redundancy of our oldest branch to a—I believe the parlance was ‘newb’—like you just so that I could groom you. What does that have to do with everything that has happened today?”

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know,” Sherlock chants automatically. Mycroft frowns.

“Are you quoting J.K. Rowling at me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock crosses his arms petulantly, “It’s just something John says at times.”

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft’s eyes crinkle with amusement as if cracking his knuckles in preparation for dragging Sherlock through the mud, “_John Watson. _How is he?”

Sherlock’s upper lip curls in a grimace, eyeing his nosy brother from head to toe, “I might as well ask you why you left the Awards venue tonight to...” Sherlock’s eyes focus over Mycroft’s grip, “to carry a violin case for someone. Unless you tried to sneak into my flat again.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, heaving an all-suffering sigh. “That was once.”

Sherlock smirks, “I should hope so. That booby trap ought to have taught you a lesson for a lifetime.”

“The charges mentioned you and the crew were harassing a Mr Henry Dempsey of 323, Lower Addiscombe Road,” Mycroft brings the train of thought back to its intended tracks, and Sherlock’s smirk wilts away. “Please don’t tell me you were going after apologising for firing the man.”

Sherlock frowns. This nitty-gritty attention to detail from Mycroft, who generally keeps a bird’s eye view on the whole company, is unexpected. Mycroft scoffs, reading Sherlock’s thoughts at once.

“Please, Sherlock. Do you really not expect me to know what is going on at my own company?”

“Do you?” Sherlock challenges, “Do you know what... certain disgruntled subordinates are up to behind your back?”

For once second, Mycroft looks touched, eyes wide with wonder that Sherlock would even choose to be loyal to him in a world where the top tier is a place where he can’t trust anyone. 

“I...” it takes Mycroft a while to recover, “have a general idea. I gather Irene Adler is rather frank with you about her... schemes?”

Sherlock looks almost conflicted. On one hand, he sympathises with Irene’s plight, the only person who gets what it’s like to be in Sherlock’s position. On the other, Mycroft is his brother, the only one like him. He turns to look out the window. They’ve almost crossed the Westminster Bridge, and in the distance, the London Eye beckons to Sherlock, twinkling with red and blue neon, and the light reflects and illuminates Sherlock’s grey irises, reminding him of a simpler time with little attachment and some agency.

“You can’t keep going like this, Mycroft.”

“Like what?”

“You have to give Irene what she wants,” a rare glimmer of Sherlock emerges, a glimpse of the great brain he keeps hidden under petulant tantrums and juvenile pranks, “She gave this company her life; she doesn’t deserve to be treated the way she is.”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“You can’t simply keep tossing her aside, Mycroft! Or, one day…” Sherlock slides back into his contemplative expression, “the chickens will come home to roost.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “May I ask what has got you into such a philosophical mood?”

Sherlock shrugs, “Prison changes people, they say.”

Mycroft looks like he wants to comment on how dramatic Sherlock is being, but upon seeing the solemn expression on his brother’s face, he adopts a more diplomatic approach.

“We all make this mistake, Sherlock._ Especially _those like us.”

Sherlock glances at Mycroft, wanting to counter with something but finally settles to watch out his window, his eyes vacant and disconnected from the sights outside. Mycroft purses his lips, fighting an overwhelming urge, but succumbs to pulling out a packet of cigarettes anyway.

“Just for tonight.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “Fancy. You had plans for these, I see.”

Mycroft pulls out one cigarette, offering it to his brother in unspoken understanding. “Take one before I change my mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he snatches the whole pack before Mycroft can react. A small consolation for the day’s events. He takes out one, leaning forward for Mycroft to light it for him.

“Do you know,” Mycroft begins, “when you were five, you found an injured bird in our family home? It broke its neck. It was dying.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw, “Shut up.”

“Instead of killing it, and sparing it the pain, you decided to treat it,” Mycroft smiles slightly, but it’s not a smug one, “Because you thought you were so clever and you’d read about it in a book, you thought you could make it fly again.”

“I know,” Sherlock seethes, “I was there.”

“Instead, you caught some disease from the bird and gave it to the rest of the household. Brought everyone down for a month.”

“Why does everyone keep reminding me of that story?”

“Human genius and will are no match for the will of the universe, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s nostalgic smile wilts away as he takes in a drag, “That’s why everyone keeps reminding you of that story. You can’t outthink the whole world. All you can do is hope you’ve accounted for… all possible variables.”

Sherlock scoffs, expelling the smoke prematurely, “You’re telling me to give up.”

Mycroft eyes him carefully, “I’m saying there’s just no point. In the grand scheme of things, there’s little we can do. Markets fall, companies come and go, pardon the pun, and employees get laid off. The more you do to make it better, the more unnecessary ripples you create, and the worse it gets.”

“Like the Iraq War?” Sherlock arches an eyebrow, quirking a smirk. Mycroft’s expression sours.

“No comment.”

* * *

Camera cuts to John and Philip seated on a bench in the Thames embankment, a section of the Awards Night riverside venue. The wind ruffles up John’s hair, making it stick up at odd angles. Philip wraps his coat around him snugly, his face pinker than usual. They gaze at the city lights reflecting off the river, the ripples travelling on its usually placid surface.

“You, man, are unbelievable,” John finally declares. Philip doesn’t reply; his empty gaze bounces off from one object to another; from trees stripped off leaves to light poles and wet riverbanks below collecting trash from the river.

“The one time I try to do something nice for you,” John goes back to muttering, “and you go and bugger it up. You don’t go grabbing your ex in front of everyone! That’s not okay! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!”

“Why’d you do it, though?” Philip turns to look at him directly. Now, it’s John’s turn to avoid Philip’s gaze.

“What d’you mean?”

Philip brandishes the plaque at John; it still says ‘John H. Watson’. John’s mouth curls in disgust.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m leaving,” John adds in an undertone.

Philip rounds onto John, gaping. This is the last thing he had been expecting. “What?!”

“Or, I’m thinking of leaving,” John crosses his arms defensively, “Not sure yet.”

“The company or...?”

John exhales a foggy breath laden with reluctance, “Bowes Park. Jim Moriarty will be my new manager.”

“I’ve heard he runs a tight ship. Nothing like Sherlock,” realisation strikes Philip, “That’s why you were sitting with him!”

“More like he came onto me.”

Philip exhales, eyeing John sideways, hundreds of questions brimming in his mind. How did this happen? And when? And why? How long will John be around before they probably never see each other again?

So, he decides to bottle it up, “When are you leaving?”

“If I accept, I’m supposed to start on Monday.”

“That’s bollocks, John. Of course, you’re going to accept!”

John raises an eyebrow. That is unexpected. “You sound very sure.”

“It’s a higher volume sales office. Yes, Ferndale is older, but company organization-wise, moving from Bowes Park to corporate is easier than from Ferndale to corporate.”

“That’s...” John sounds like he hasn’t even given those things much thought, “yeah, that’s right.”

Philip catches onto that. “You don’t even know. Wow. How are you even getting a promotion?”

John frowns. “It’s not exactly a—”

“Are you getting paid more than now?”

That promptly shuts John up. Philip wears his gloves and rises from the bench, fixing John with a pensive stare.

“Have you at least got your stuff from the office?”

John peers up at Philip. All night, after that extended interaction with Jim Moriarty, he’s been asking himself if he should take this plunge. But, it seems like no matter however many reasons he tries to bring up not to leave, there’s always one reason more that tells him to leave.

“I don’t know, mate. Ferndale is... closer to my flat,” John adds lamely. Philip, as always, doesn’t buy his shit.

“If you really are into blokes, you’ll find plenty better than Sherlock, y’know. Don’t hinge this decision on him; you shouldn’t date from your office, anyway. Especially your manager.”

John gapes at him, mouth frozen partly due to the cold and the shock of hearing it so clearly, “Really? You’re the one to talk.”

“I’m serious! You’ve been skipping lunch since that IT thing happened; you don’t look like you’re getting proper sleep—”

“Alright,” John gets up, trying to shut him down, “That’s enough.”

“Look, Sally and me, we’re different—”

“Mate, stop,” John scoffs, “before you say something shitty.”

“It’s not my fault!” Philip wheezes, “Sally wasn’t listening to me. I_ need _her to listen to me.”

“She doesn’t. You have got to get your act together.”

Philip’s upper lip curls, “That’s what Dan said to me.”

Colour leaves John’s face, despite the cold, “Dan?”

“Yeah.”

“As in Dan Hennell, the senior HR director of the company? The one we get those HR Direct emails from all the time?”

Philip chuckles, unable to understand why John is making such a big fuss of it, “Yeah. I mean, I_ get _what I did was a little out of hand, but they don’t have the full picture, y’know. I mean, look at The Matrix. If Trinity hadn’t kissed Neo, how would Neo have realised that he was The One?”

John looks doubtful, “Uh-huh.”

“Dan just said he’d get in touch with Greg, and you know, that usual HR blabber. I told them I know all of this. I’m the company’s top salesman, after all. But, I guess I still have to do a bit of sensitisation workshop or something.”

“Wow, okay. Well, look, Philip, I—uh... probably need to get going. Gotta get my stuff from the office like you said.”

Philip looks taken aback, “Oh, okay...”

John bolts out of there, not willing to be a participant in that conversation anymore, “See ya later.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock and Mycroft in the latter’s car, now approaching Sherlock’s flat in Baker Street. Sherlock looks almost torn between leaving Mycroft’s overbearing presence or leaving the hotbox he’s created so painstakingly in the car.

As always, curbing fratricidal urges are most important, and Sherlock throws the car door open, almost about to_ thump _it close when Mycroft sticks his neck out.

“Don’t smoke them all tonight,” Mycroft presses his lips together testily. “If you’d like, I could… be around to ensure you don’t relapse into… temptation—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock growls, stomping off towards his flat. With a grunt, Mycroft heaves himself off the car seat, marching after Sherlock, till he intercepts him near the door.

“I understand you might feel the urge, but you have to remember, Sherlock. You can’t let your urges and your neuroses rule you all the time. Chasing things beyond our agency only makes life more disappointing.”

“And do what instead?” Sherlock sneers, “Sit in the top floor of a decommissioned lighthouse, away from all the noise and people like you do and be bored to death?”

Mycroft’s eyes are severe, worn with age.

“I’m better off as a decommissioned lighthouse. And deep down, you know you’d be too. Stay above the mess of the ordinary, Sherlock.”

“Fine!” Sherlock flings the door open, “May I go now?”

Without waiting for Mycroft to answer, Sherlock scurries away into 221B. Mycroft lets out a sigh, calling out a final “Let me know if you need anything” before turning back to his car.

As Mycroft is driven away, we see Sherlock peek through the front door to make sure Mycroft is gone. He strides back onto the street, speaking into the cameras as he waits for an empty cab.

“As insufferable as Mycroft is, he’s usually right, and if you broadcast this bit, you’ll be very sorry. I’ve been going about this whole Henry business the wrong way. I can’t control their budget. But I can ensure he gets another job…”

Sherlock’s voice grows fainter, realising just what prompted his brother to make those final observations.

“Henry was sending his resumés while employed. Which means he was either using his company email or his personal email, either of which will be saved in his system back in the office. I can hack his email to find out where he has applied for jobs, and send glowing recommendations for him. A little farfetched, but this time, I am accounting for all the possible variables.”

A cab comes around the corner, as if in cahoots with Sherlock’s plan. Sherlock smirks at the camera, but the usual mischief that tinges it is gone.

“I’m taking this one. You can get the next one if you want to join me.”

* * *

Camera cuts to Sherlock at his desk in the Ferndale office, darkened, just a table lamp on, streetlights filtering in through Venetian blinds. Sherlock—who had run from his flat in a final rebellion of Mycroft’s parting words—seems to have finally given up for good. He stares at the blinking cursor vacantly, almost hypnotised by the constant disappearance and reappearance of it. There’s an ashtray on the desk near Sherlock’s left hand, with two burnt-out cigarette butts lying extinguished in a damp paper napkin.

The office is so silent. For a moment, it seems almost impossible to believe that, come Monday, those copiers will beep again and phones will ring again and shredders will whirr again. But, regardless of whatever anyone does or believes or feels about it, that is exactly what will keep happening: a constant grinding on and on over hearts and minds and souls that never stops. They say nothing lasts forever. That’s not true. The regularity, the routine of the wheels of business will keep turning till the end of time, unrelenting, unyielding, indifferent. It’s inevitable, and it’s pointless to fight it. There are no loopholes around it.

Sherlock minimises the program window. His automatic Windows wallpaper turns out to be a field of daisies waving in the air, with clear blue open skies above them. He blows a halfhearted raspberry at that, going to shut down his computer before hearing footsteps.

Sherlock is instantly alert. But a familiar silhouette appears in the H&H main door, followed by a contemplative John, head hung low, fists in pockets. He comes to an abrupt stop when he sees Sherlock peering at him curiously from his office.

“John?”

John blinks, equally bemused by Sherlock’s presence. He had expected the office to be empty.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Could ask the same of you.”

“I was... just needed to... needed some stuff from the office,” he approaches Sherlock, entering his office, “Did you... did you stay cooped up in your office all evening?”

Sherlock’s eyes drift away, as if thinking back to his misguided adventure: the final workaround, the march to Henry’s home, the debacle thereafter.

“I had a... somewhat eventful day.”

John mock-pouts, “Yeah, I bet. Especially since you couldn’t be bothered to ring me back.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but takes one look at John’s expression and decides that he, Mr Compulsive Comeback, would rather not reply. John purses his lips, his gaze drifting away from Sherlock towards the items in his office. Surprisingly, everything in Sherlock’s office has a memory of the two of them attached. The chair where he had first introduced himself. A sliver of Cluedo visible through the ajar cupboard door. The ‘World’s Best Boss’ tea mug that John gave to Sherlock for Christmas. Printouts from when he and Sherlock had fished out Philip’s Illuminati blog from the deep web. The safety meeting lighter which Sherlock used to set fire to the office.

Leaving would mean abandoning all of it.

“I, uh...” John begins, but unable to continue. His gaze finally comes to rest on the ashtray on Sherlock’s desk, “You okay?”

Sherlock frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugs, glancing up at the smoke detector. The sensor has been taped away, “It’s been months since I last saw you smoke.”

As if to piss John off further, Sherlock pulls out another cigarette from the pack, “You should try them. Might help you sleep after all.”

John doesn’t react to the insinuation, “If I...”

“Increases metabolism—”

_“—ever_ need that—”

“Improves appetite—”

“—you’ll be the first to know.”

“Especially during those lunches in one’s car.”

John clenches his jaw, fixing Sherlock with a stern expression to make him lay off, but loses the edge almost immediately, stung that Sherlock did know how much John had been avoiding him ever since John had been forced to admitting having a ‘crush’ on Sherlock, and yet he even hadn’t bothered to ask.

As if in response, Sherlock blows out a cavalier puff of smoke into the air. It would’ve been elegant at any other moment, but not now.

“By the way, you missed out quite a scene in Awards Night. You do know you were supposed to be there, right?”

“Was I?”

John frowns; he’s fairly sure Sherlock knew he had to be there, “Yeah. You were supposed to be ‘presenting’ me with the award. So, why weren’t you there?”

The tone makes Sherlock smirk, “You know me, John. Frivolous award ceremonies, not really my thing... So, who did it instead?”

“Gave it away to Philip. After torturing him for about two hours. And then it sorta backfired and turned ugly, but...”

Sherlock lets out a snort, “You pranked Philip without me?”

“Well, I’m not gonna be waiting around for you forever, am I?”

“Fair enough. Which, once again, brings up why you came to office,” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, “Another prank? Already preparing for Monday, maybe?”

John chuckles uncomfortably. He had come here to get his stuff, clean out his desk and send Sherlock that email about his promotion/transfer. If only he’d known that life would always have other plans for him.

“No pranks. I had something to tell you...”

“That you haven’t been eating or sleeping as of late—”

“No, I just—”

“Wait,” Sherlock grows wary, recalling Mycroft’s words, “Did Mycroft send you to keep an eye on me?”

“I was just, uh...” a glimmer of decision flashes in John’s eyes. Standing on the ledge, Ferndale ends one step further, while Bowes Park is the unknown depths of the expansive valley under the cliff. John can either say it or keep up the bullshit forever, “I’m in love with you.”

All callousness leaves Sherlock, expression and posture alike. John sucks in a breath, hiding his face, realising he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.

“It’s just...” John glances up at him painfully, “Sherlock, I...”

“Why?”

John gulps. Colour has left Sherlock’s face, and the half-burnt cigarette extinguished. Sherlock is an unreadable mess, because that monosyllable means a hundred questions and John doesn’t have answers to any of them.

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why,” Sherlock’s voice is painfully measured, “_would_ you be in love with someone like me?”

“I... I don’t...” John trails away, unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze, because how does one respond to that question when all one wants to do is repeat over and over how much one loves the person in front of them?

“You’d hate me, John,” Sherlock continues in that level tone as if he’s given this scenario a lot of prior thought. He keeps himself at a safe distance behind his desk, away from John, “I’m not cut out for relationships. You’d have expectations, and I’d keep letting you down. You’d be constantly frustrated and disappointed. I won’t be able to carry out the necessary compromises and placating lies expected of a romantic partner.”

John blinks back tears, biting down on his lower lip to whiteness.

“I’m satisfied with the way things are, John. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, and—”

“No,” John’s voice cracks, “I don’t want to do that... I want to be more than that.”

“There’s just no point,” Sherlock smiles thinly, painfully. “I’m not the man you thought I was.”

“I just... I still...” John croaks, taking a step back from the doorway of Sherlock’s office, hiding his face in defeat. A tear escapes the left one, and John wipes it away before it can leave its mark, “Just needed you to know. Once.”

Sherlock looks down at his lap, and John down at his feet, a retreat into themselves, into their fallout shelters when all is said and done and the catastrophe of saying what they really mean has passed.

Without a final look, John walks away and away, the way he came in, leaving Sherlock staring after him numbly long after he’s disappeared.

* * *

Camera cuts to John in the H&H parking lot, trying his best to hold it together. The late January wind seems to have grown stronger as John’s scarf flutters in the wind in the direction of Ferndale Business park building, as if trying to steer John back into the office, back to Sherlock.

John’s shoulders tremble, his fists clenched. His car seems so far away, and each step looks like an agonising trudge through snow that’s as high as one’s knees.

“Oh, fuck,” John croaks to himself, shaking his head desperately as if he’s finally starting to come to terms with the new reality. There’s no way he can stay now and look Sherlock in the eye. Ever.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh,_ fuck!_ What have I—?” John tugs at his hair, screwing his eyes shut, panic flooding him, knees giving in. Being stoic in front of Sherlock, in the face of rejection, has finally begun to unravel into raspy wheezing of raw yowls and assorted invectives.

“Oh, fuck! What the fuck—Oh, god, Oh,_ god!” _John begins to gasp, clutching and doubling over as if he’s going to be sick. He nearly retches but, even in that brief moment of ugly anguish, remembers to wipe his tears off. John sinks to his knees onto the tarmac, biting down on his hand to stop any more words from coming out.

The hyperventilating slowly dissipates, reducing to a faint groan. John clutches his chest as if breathing is a torture to plough through. Slowly, he heaves himself to his feet, face as grey as the road beneath him.

“John.”

That confused baritone of Sherlock nearly whips John back into normalcy. Sherlock has followed him into the parking lot, out into the cold. He steels himself, blinking away and wiping off any evidence of his heartbreak.

But despite Sherlock’s call, John doesn’t answer. He’s already done the worst thing one can do to their best friend: told Sherlock his darkest secret, opened his heart, never to be able to close it again, never to be able to take it all back again.

By the time Sherlock reaches him, John’s breathing has returned to normal. The pink nose could be attributed to the chilly air, the watery eyes to the fierce winds. But John still doesn’t turn to face Sherlock; knowing him, Sherlock might just figure out the reason by some deduction of his.

“John, I wanted to...” Sherlock looks down at his feet, and the uncertainty in his voice is what finally propels John to turn and possibly steal one last look at his best friend, “I realised something—”

And before Sherlock can get another word in, John crosses the meagre distance between them, links his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kisses him very gently, almost uncertain. Sherlock stiffens, but melts into it at last, sliding his arms around John’s waist. John’s fingers thread into Sherlock’s hair and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. He opens his mouth to capture Sherlock’s lips, tremulously at first, then with mounting heat and passion as he presses his chest flush to him and pulls him deep against him.

This is all it has led to: hundreds of snatched moments during tedious workdays and shared giggling, months of sneaked glances and silent desire, weeks worth of unspoken conversations and deep longing, hours of banter and witticisms masking lingering touches and things left unsaid, and minutes of shared breathing all culminating in mere seconds of lips over lips.

They break away, tender and passionate and unwilling to part and Sherlock looks down before meeting John’s dismayed eyes. Desperate breaths lick and mingle, causing Sherlock to nuzzle their foreheads together, a motion so small and shy it makes John shudder. John strokes his cheek with the back of his fingers before bringing them to trace a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. A breathy moan escapes Sherlock’s mouth at the touch, a gentle, lingering caress that is as good as John Watson saying ‘I love you’.

“You…” John breathes Sherlock in deeply as if he’ll never get to inhale his scent again, “have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Sherlock almost smirks, a small admission of guilt. John closes his eyes, leaning in to kiss Sherlock again, only to be stopped by a gentle push from Sherlock’s hand over his heart.

“You should go back up. Finish what you came here for.”

John realises what Sherlock is implying. The monotone runs another shiver through him, but he doesn’t say anything in his defence anymore. His lips have said all there is to be said. All that remains are questions.

“How long have you known?”

“The moment you walked out,” Sherlock entwines his fingers with John’s, “Irene mentioned about personnel changes in Bowes Park as one of the reasons for Henry’s layoff. And only desperate men wander around their offices at eleven-thirty at night... I suppose I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

John gulps. So, this is it.

“I don’t need to go upstairs. I’ll just get new stuff, new stationery,” John’s voice breaks, “You’ll get my email on Monday.”

“Fine. Bowes Park…” Sherlock tries one last smile, “It’s just the other side of London.”

John gulps. “I know.” But the resigned finality to his words makes John tuck his chin into his chest, not daring to look up, not daring to let that single tear in his left eye fall again. It’s the other side of London, but it might as well be across the country. “You’re not changing your mind, then?”

Sherlock nods, a man who’s lived a hundred years of misery since his first day in the office. “It’s better this way.”

“Okay,” John nearly chokes as he untangles himself from Sherlock’s grip, “Bye.”

He tries to come up with one last joke to leave Sherlock with, to leave with his dignity intact, to leave with distancing himself from every feeling that can overwhelm him and shame him and leave him exposed, raw and vulnerable—but the truth is the time for jokes is gone. The time for hovering around the edges is gone. John has gone all in and lost, just like he had always thought he would. Even if a joke could restore some sense of normalcy to his relationship with Sherlock, it would be too false, too detached, too dissonant. If his brief time with Sherlock has taught him anything, it’s that there are some things an ill-timed joke just can’t fix.

And opening your heart, only to have it rejected and smushed like a thing abandoned on the pavement, is one of them.

\---THE END---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like to read the Halloween special in this universe (after you’ve processed the ending), [proceed here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308155). In case you found yourselves completely blindsided by Sherlock’s rejection of John, the Halloween special might shed some light.
> 
> Since Yasmine Akram (the actress who plays Janine in BBC Sherlock) is half-Pakistani, I thought it would be cool to make Janine half-Pakistani too. Hopefully, you picked up on the hints about what's going to happen in the next fic :D

**Author's Note:**

> “Humorous is the only truthful way to tell a sad story.” ― some dude I haven’t read
> 
> This is all I wanted to do—dress up an angsty story in funny costumes and present it as a comedy. I like to think I've succeeded with this. This is the hardest thing I've ever written. Its episodic format and the bitchy narrative voice kicked my ass for 7 months.
> 
> But does it end here? Is my (and the Johnlock) suffering over? Hell, no! It's still unresolved, and what sort of story would that be if it ended here?
> 
> But now, it's time for a hiatus. I have an exam coming up in February (assuming it doesn't get cancelled because of COVID), for which I need to study seriously, so I can get down to posting the next fic in this series only after my exam is done. Honestly, I should have started studying months ago, but with a study schedule of twelve hours a day, I think I can do it hahahahaha
> 
> Kudos and comments are absolutely adored and fawned over!
> 
> I'm [Iris-best-taken-in-small-doses](https://iris-best-taken-in-small-doses.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and [@_S_IRIS_](https://twitter.com/_S_IRIS_) on Twitter. Follow me for Sherlock stuff!
> 
> If you liked this, why not give [my other stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS/works) a try?


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